Back to the Beginning's Edge
by fallen2far
Summary: This is a story of Batman slowly solving one of the most important crimes of the century. Prologue and Chapter 1 - 5 only
1. prologue

Hi. This is an experimental story. I'm just getting some practice in. If enough people are interested, I'll continue it. It took a lot of patience and a lot of time to do this one little bit, so try not to have high hopes for more.

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Prelude-- 

The ballroom was filled with marble and granite. The light from the candle chandelier and six foot lamps scattered throughout gave the whole room a golden glow that left the room feeling like an enchanted dream. The green and blue of scattered paintings created a sense of liveliness and beauty. Above, a skylight looked up to a blank night sky. The lights of Gotham dimmed the stars themselves leaving shadows casting the city, but inside there was life.

The people of the room were of stark contrast to the liveliness of the room. The men all wore the same tuxedo and stood as still as they were bred to do. The women were dressed in elegant gowns that had to be held with one hand while walking. They stood in their little groups moving only to pivot their waists to look at the people around them. The only motion throughout the room is the white dressed waiters weaving through the crowd with trays at shoulder level holding salmon, pâté and caviar.

Not many people wanted to be there, but almost all wanted to be seen within the walls of the room. An invite only crowd mingled in the quaintest shallow conversation possible. Another fundraiser to feed the poor or cure someone… something in which no one really cared about except the ones receiving the proceeds. One person in particular had asked his butler to send the money and be done with it. The butler, however, commented on how his duties to appear in brighter clothing was being neglected and convinced the man to accept the invitation… for the children… or the poor… or sick--one of them.

This man was having a particularly draining conversation with a "good friend" that he couldn't quite remember ever meeting. "… and increase your investment three-fold within the fiscal year."

The man parroted, "Three fold within the fiscal year?" and proceeded to wish he was anywhere else right now.

The "friend" continued on, "Yes, the overhaul of the import alone will….." and the rest was noise until his timbre sounded like he was getting to a particular point.

The man's eyes wandered throughout the room. In the distant, he saw a particular social circle he desperately wished to be a member of, but was trapped in this particular conversation. They were easy to spot what with them being the only two lively and distinct people throughout the sea of the upper-class. A young man of his mid-twenties and a black man of his early fifties laughing like good friends from long ago.

The old man was the infamous Lucius Fox. He's been one of the best money makers that have ever entered the city limits of Gotham City, head organizer of most of Wayne Enterprises' subsidiaries and one of the oldest true friends of the man looking fondly from a distance. The young man was Dick Grayson; a man that was raised of poverty and privilege, love and loss and above all faith and loyalty. He was the ward of Bruce Wayne until time healed both of their wounds and became the legally adopted son of the richest man in Gotham.

The man was in some social death like grip with… What was his name, Todd? Finally, he was getting to a point. "So what do you think?"

"Of what?"

"The investment. The project could start from the deduction from this event."

"Deduction?"

"Yeah, charitable deduction. You can get most of your money back from this event."

"That kind of defeats the purpose of charity, doesn't it?

"Well, you get your money back so you can invest in other business ventures."

"Then why would I give the charities the money instead of having governments give them a grant… This seems a little confusing to me."

"It's simple you see--"

"Can I hold you on that thought? I really have to go see these pictures before I invest in them."

"What about--"

"You know what? Why don't you talk to Lucius Fox? He'll understand the stuff so much more… I've just, really got to go."

With that, the man was able to pull away from the conversation and be a good distance to catch his breath. Part of him wished he was beating up a clown at that moment. His thought was interrupted by a voice.

"Mr. Wayne… how good of you to come."

With that voice, he wouldhave settled for punching a ventriloquist with a Tommy gun.

The voice called out his name again and he finally recognized it as a woman's voice. He turned around to see a fairly beautiful woman.

His analytical mind took in her characteristics… a 5'7" woman with brunette hair. She wore a modest blue dress that showed a lack of elegance that littered the room though that most definitely wasn't a bad thing. That, added to the lack of expensive jewelry, led to the assumption that she wasn't born into money. It also showed her concerns concentrate more on working than networking. She was most obviously a member of the auction society.

"Forgive me, Miss?"

"Fanshaw. Cynthia Fanshaw."

"Have we met?"

"Oh no, I'm--"

"Oh, thank goodness," he sighed, "I was afraid I'd have to go through that whole dance around the subject of how I know you."

After a moment's pause, she shakes off a thought and says, "Well I don't think that's necessary."

"What a relief. Did you receive an invitation through Donald as well?"

"Donald Sizemore? No he--"

"He was very obsessive about this exhibit. He believes these pictures might actually rise in value."

"Well that's--"

"Personally, I just want something that'll look good."

Again she paused expecting him to continue his thought, but Mr. Wayne wanted to prolong the annoying pompous routine further. When she tried to get a word in, he interrupted.

"So how much are you planning on spending?"

With a cracked smile she finally saw an opening for a few words. "I'm the curator here."

"Oh," he faked surprise and continued, "You're not bidding, then?"

"No, it's slightly outside my price range."

After a slight pause, she smiled and said, "I'd have imagined the dress would have given it away."

He smiled back at her and replied, "With all due respect Miss. Fanshaw, I think you look rather enchanting this evening." In an awkward silence, Bruce said, "In all honesty, my butler dressed me for this event."

She laughed at that last comment, "Well, my compliments to the butler." After she said this, her eyes instantly went wide in embarrassment. She began figuring out which was worse, the fact she said it to such a handsome man or the thought that it was said to the billionaireproactively funding the event.

Bruce looked around the ballroom and then faced her again and with a comforting smile said, "I don't suppose you could give me any advice on some of these pieces."

She rolled her eyes behind closed eyes and agreed. Bruce looked back at his previous desired location to find Mr. Grayson looking back smiling. He raised his eyebrows toward the beautiful woman escorting Bruce and nodded. With considerable effort, Bruce forced his face to remain stoic and not smile back.

They both approached a large portrait filled with dark shadows of red and blue. "This painting is a self portrait of a German painter named Arthur Liest. People find the lack of balance shows instability in the artist. This is very evident in a lot of his other works. A concentration of bright colors in the corners with cascading shadows pointing outwards and engulfing the rest of the work."

"You said it was the artist who was instable?"

"Well, it's a common trend among artists," she laughed at her own joke only to look back at Mr. Wayne's confusion and stopped immediately. "Many people believe that artwork is an expression of the artist. Common trends in the artist's might show parts of his personality. In Mr. Liest, it's a case of large shadows and sparse areas of bright colors."

Of course, Bruce Wayne was a veteran of psychological interpretation, but sometimes, the proper face to wear is confusion. With this in mind, Bruce Wayne asked, "Does this mean that people like to pay for artists to say they're crazy?"

Cynthia cracked a smile and replied, "There are many reasons for someone to buy art, Mr. Wayne. Some people like to see an intensity of an emotion they feel, whether its despair or joy. In this case, someone's willing to pay two hundred thousand dollars for this painting of pain… most likely because the buyer wants everyone to think he either feels this emotion, or he feels because it's worth that much to someone else who does have that emotion and the buyer likes to see those around him with a face of envy." She chuckled at what she just said and glanced back at the painting.

"Honestly, I just like the painting." Cynthia eyes went wide immediately at this phrase. She couldn't even look at Mr. Wayne at this moment. "In fact I never really saw the shadows until you mentioned them. I actually bought it because this is a charity benefit and the asking price was two hundred thousand dollars."

Realizing that her mouth was agape, she quickly closed it saying, "I didn't mean anything by it… I just"

Mr. Wayne looked at her expectantly for a moment while she stammered for some coherent response. After a time, he decided to break the awkward silence.

"Perhaps we should move on to another piece. Preferably one, I haven't already purchased."

She closed her eyes and signed lightly. "Of course, Mr. Wayne."

They walked out of the room filled with paintings and entered one filled with room filled antiquities. There were a great varied pieces of art from granite statues of Greek descent to wooden antiques from colonial times. Mr. Wayne's attention was drawn to a small chest close to the entrance. It was two foot by three foot with thick varnish over a hickory oak. It was decorated with expensive jewels in the center of the top and a floral design carved in the side.

"I wouldn't look too intently at that particular item, Mr. Wayne."

"And why would you say that?"

Miss. Fanshaw took a moment to gather her thoughts and explained as professionally as was within her limits. "The box is said to be an artifact of the Samson Bros. collection. It was produced in 1764, slightly before the Revolutionary War. It heavily supported English rule and exported most of its designs the imperialist France and England. After the war, the company couldn't find buyers so they closed down. The Samson Bros. were excellent at fine crafting their craft and decorating these boxes with a wide variety of rare stones. They used pearls and emeralds to accent the box's lid and along the bottom rim."

Bruce looked back at Miss. Fanshaw. "I'm afraid; I don't quite understand. It would seem that a box of such rich history should have a high appreciation."

"Well, an object like this is highly sought after, and that's part of the problem. If you look on the back… this hinge was replaced. The left corner of the lid was completely replaced and reassembled with shoddy workmanship. It's quite possible; someone tried to steal it, and dropped it while running from one costumed vigilante or another. In all honesty, very little of the original box remains."

Brucetouched it lightlywith his hands. He'd admittedly noticed how the box was refurbished many times through the years, but he was curious as to why she was so forthcoming on the matter. After all, she was receiving funding for her museum through this event, why would she devalue something that, quite easily, could have been overlooked.

"You're not used to selling the pieces, are you Miss. Fanshaw."

"What do you mean?"

"I was just curious why you would point out this piece as something that I shouldn't look at. It just seems odd."

Upon hearing the question, her pulse raced. She began to flush a little across her cheek. "Well, I thought it was better to show that I'm not trying to sell you anything. Well, I mean… you know… I don't want you to think I'm dishonest or…. I'm sorry." She took a deep breath and continued. "Mr. Wayne, some of my colleagues see you as a prominent figure to be on good terms with. They're looking forward to future business, and asked that I… well… be honest with you."

She was, thankfully interrupted by a most curiously handsome stranger.

"Don't let him scare you, Miss. He's developed a terrible habit of rousing people."

They both turned to see Dick Grayson holding two flutes of champagne in his hands. He handed one filled with champagne to the young lady

"Oh, no. It wasn't like that… I mean."

"You're Cynthia Fanshaw. Am I correct?" She responded with a mere nod while rolling her eyes.

Dick Grayson leaned into her and whispered, "It's okay. Here, take this, and I'll just borrow him for one minute. I promise that he'll be more docile."

She smiled with the crystal in her hand, and whispered, "I'm sorry, I…"

"You've got nothing to apologize for. Take a few sips… breathe… you're doing fine."

Dick took two steps back, looked her with a reassuring nod and turned to Mr. Wayne. Dick handed him the other champagne glass. Dick smiled and led him around the room to a large staircase; they walked down the case to a small area devoid of prying ears. "I thought Alfred told you to let Bruce Wayne out for a stroll. You know, give Batman a rest."

Bruce's face almost changed instantly. It became a stoic stone with one course of thought. "Did you bring it?"

Dick Grayson rolled his eyes and shook his head. He then looked at him and nodded.

"Yeah, mine are hidden in the rafters. You know, when you called me up to invite me to this gala, I was hoping it was a sign of you finally learning to relax."

Bruceput the flute to his mouth and tilted the glass, keeping his mouth closed. The champagne lightly touched his lips and he took it away. "Penguin, Mad Hatter and King Tut are still unaccounted for."

"Penguin's running arms on that shipment in two weeks, and wouldn't risk exposing himself this close to the deal. He would only use artwork to launder his funds, Mad Hatter doesn't fit the profile and…. King Tut? Okay, you're just reaching at this point."

Bruce looked at Dick with an icy glare. "You know how it works. There are millions of dollars worth of artwork in here. It's a prime target for anyone. And if it's not attacked, then it's being protected by someone worse."

Dick scratched his temple and replied, "Or maybe we're actually doing something more than fighting crime and are successfully preventing it." Bruce looked away toward the sea of faces. Dick continued, "Look, we can follow the money afterwards easily. We're as prepared as we need to be for any direct problems. Try to relax."

"It never hurts to be prepared."

Dick chuckled at that and said, "Well, it might traumatize the stuttering femme fatale." He looked around to see Cynthia standing by a railing for stairwell. He smiled and nodded. She in turn looked away bottoming out the champagne and grabbing another one from a passing busboy.

"Just try to relax around her."

"How do you know her?"

Dick began to walk toward her with Bruce following his lead. "She's one of the curators who organized this event. Her niece is autistic, so her efforts with the ACF for this event are probably more emotional than professional. She's hoping to have a strong relationship with the Wayne Foundation."

Bruce stopped walking. Dick paused a moment and looked behind him. Dick asked, "What?" Bruce didn't respond. "I already researched the event and its main publicly known contributories. Again, you don't invite me to these things very often. I thought Ra's al Ghul was messing with us again."

Bruce almost smiled and continued walking. When they were within earshot of Cynthia, Bruce said, "And that's why Gradner is making up a portfolio."

Dick responded, "Makes sense, I'll definitely have to look into it right away." Dick nodded to her and continued, "…and we're back to where we started. I'll leave you with the lovely lady."

He took the lady by the hand, held it up and close to him, leaned into her and whispered, "Calm down. Remember, he's just a regular guy." He looked back to Bruce and nodded and continued his way back toward Lucius Fox.

"Who was that?"

Bruce looked her in the eyes and said, "That, was my and a guest. His name's Dick Grayson. He's my… well… he's my son." For some strange reason, that didn't sound right to Bruce at that moment. Brother?

He thought for a moment how much easier it is for him to think of their relationship as Batman and Robin or Batman and Nightwing than as Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson. Partners. Brothers. Heroes. It's so much easier to wear costumes.

Bruce noticed there was a slight confusion in her face, so he explained, "My adopted son. He kept his parent's surname out of respect of their memory."

Understanding breezed across her face, if only temporarily.

"You were telling me about this chest."

"Well, Mr. Wayne, frankly, there's not much else to tell. Again, it's been damaged thus devaluing it and the refurbishing was shoddy. Look at this." She held up the lid and pulled out a mini, plastic pointer. She pointed at the pearls along the borders.

"Do you see the discoloration of these stones and pearls… well the sizes are also altered slightly. They're not supposed to be so evenly aligned. The Samson Bros. had the center of the chest be the focal point and the descending sizes back around to the end. These seven pearls are all the same size and the **stones** were ground down to keep it even. Furthermore, the pearls themselves have been repaired."

Bruce paused for a moment. "They repaired the chest with chipped pearls?"

She shook her head, "Not chipped, bored. Do you see this faint little white dot here?" Bruce looked at the pearl. He could definitely notice a slight shade lighter discoloration. He nodded to her and she continued, "it appears on each of the pearls. They tried to hide it by leaving the restoration so close edge, but we're very thorough here."

"Why use flawed pearls to fix it?"

She smiled at him and said, "Who knows. Maybe they were lazy. Most likely, it's because they were sized in something. They were part of another structure or a piece of jewelry like a bracelet or a necklace."

The last word echoed in Mr. Wayne's mind. Necklace.

"Again this is all speculation."

Necklace.

"Mr. Wayne?"

"What? Oh. I apologize."

"Is something wrong?"

Bruce rubbed his fingers along the lid feeling the pearls beneath his hand. He thought to himself, "Too small. Too much of a coincidence. It's nothing."

"Mr. Wayne?"

"It's nothing." He's said aloud. Almost too loud. He quickly cleared his voice and repeated himself more professionally. "It's nothing." He smiled.

"Should we move onto something else?"

It's nothing.

"Of course."

The words kept repeating in his head, trying to convince himself. It's nothing.

"Right this way."

* * *

"I trust the evening was a success?" said the British voice of another of his most valued friends. 

Bruce Wayne said nothing. It ended up being an uneventful event as Dick suggested. Nothing happened. And he kept telling himself nothing happened as he sat in his limousine.

"I'm surprised you didn't wish to stay longer. Master Grayson appeared to be enjoying himself with the company. Perhaps you could learn something from him?"

Bruce Wayne just sat and stared out the window, thinking. Thinking about nothing.

Alfred noticed that he was being ignored. He looked in the rear view mirror and saw the blank expression of Master Wayne. He decided to test the waters

"I regret to inform you sir, the mansion burned to the ground. Selena Kyle has just given birth to an albino child with a curiously large grin on his face and it appears the earth has been designated to be colonized by a species of vagrant thugs from some star system Master Grayson is familiar with, most likely because he has been intimate with several of the female of their species."

Bruce Wayne continued to stare out the window.

Alfred sighed, "I really hope this new lady friend isn't going to end up fighting you clad in spandex like the last four."

"I'm sorry. Did you say something Alfred?"

"Nothing, sir."

He rubbed the ridges of the ledge of the two foot by three foot chest sitting next to him as he thought about nothing.

To be continued...

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Okay, this is another of my WTF stories. All suggestions and help are greatly appreciated. Thank you. 


	2. Chapter 1

Again, tell me if it's going too slow and I should pick it up.

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Chapter 1

One could hear the echoes of a constant, slow drip for miles within the caverns under Wayne Manor. The ambience itself almost howled within the cave. Throughout tunnels and underground rivers, only a seven acre area was used for secretive purposes by its owner. It was plated with metal and lights to create order in the chaotic edges of the cave. Slow drops from the stalactites above will ensure that the jaggedness will return centuries from now, but for as long as he lives, there will be order here.

Some have argued that his goals have always been selfless, while others have believed that without control of the compulsion that drives him, no concept of self actually exists to sacrifice. Regardless of the argument of motives, Bruce Wayne's determination can only be described as inhuman. The hours he spent the previous days as Bruce Wayne above ground, was spent organizing the economic advancement of one of the largest corporations in the world. Then, he spent hours patrolling the darkened shadows of Gotham City. Within the city's confines, he broke up crime from a basic mugging within his sight to a drug ring in the lower East side. The hours in between were spent within the several acres of this dark, echoing cave researching the crimes and criminal minds above him.

It's always been an amazing force that drives him. Could it have been fear of letting tragedy occur like it did that night in an alley so many years ago? Could it be hateful revenge against the people that wronged him? Is it hope for a better world? Did it evolve over time to become the life he knows, and nothing else? Whatever the reason, he continued to work, unabated in this near oblivious isolation.

But something was different within those few hours. For a few hours, his mission was slightly distracted. He felt a part of his analytical mind slowing down, wishing to search farther into a mystery he'd given up on. He had technology that sorts out enumerable amounts of information that could've been presented dozens of different ways across a myriad of screens and holographic displays. His advanced mind would see patterns in crimes throughout the city and pinpoint the next location of danger, but his heart argued with his mind.

"It's not possible. It's just another dead end," his mind asserted.

"But if there's a chance it could be true, perhaps I could finally rest that terrible demon," his heart argued.

"It's logically impossible. After all this time, for it to just happen would be too much of a coincidence."

"Perhaps it was fate. Stranger things have happened. People have risen from the dust and ashes, perhaps the ghosts of the past have come back to finally find peace."

It's nothing.

But maybe…

"I never thought a fingerprint could be so interesting."

The words of a teenage friend echoed through the cave. The origin of the voice was young Tim Drake. He walked down a long set of steps that led from the mansion to the expanse of darkness.

It was so much simpler for Tim Drake. He had a similar drive, but his motives were so pure and simple. Duty and honor. Faith in what's right and good. Years ago, he took up the mantle of Robin because it was necessary. Dick Grayson had moved on from the role that was taken up by a street urchin named Jason Todd. His subsequent death nearly drove Batman insane. At the time, there needed to be a Robin and he was the only one who could fill the role. In the beginning, he wanted the role to be temporary, but over time, he filled the legendary and necessary role to the point that it's difficult to imagine anyone else wearing the bright colors contrasting the dark knight.

"I wasn't expecting you so soon."

"So soon? Bruce it's after eight. The Diamondbacks will be collecting protection money from Xing Nar's Dry Cleaners in less than an hour."

Bruce looked to his left to at a time display and slightly cursed under his breath.

"What's the case you're working on now?"

"These are the fingerprints found at the Steinbeck's Jewelers two days ago. They're the fingerprints of Joey Fenster; aka Smiley. He was a hired thug of the Joker who's been dead for three years."

"Sounds tough. Do you want me to take the wannabe gang members solo?"

"No, the data's been inputted into the computers. It's come up a dead lead, so far, so the crime has to be reasoned outside of the basic logic parameters of the computer."

"Translation: you have to figure it out yourself, because the computer's stumped."

Bruce turned away from the computer screen and walked toward the cape and cowl hanging from a six foot pedestal in the middle of the modern technological area of the cave. With a swift motion the cape flew around his neck and fastened to the Kevlar under lament of his costume. "In as many words, yes. Immediate matters always hold precedence."

As he pushed his hands into gauntlet like gloves, he thought to himself, "Sometimes a mystery will be put on hold temporarily… sometimes too long…"

"Are we taking the Batmobile again, or are should we go patrolling afterwards?"

Batman clipped the think, yellow compartment belt around his waste. "Batmobile. This is the only scheduled stop. After this, we'll probably head to the jeweler for more information and come straight back."

Batman pressed a combination of buttons on his belt. Immediately, a platform rose from below a circular steel door on the ground near the edges of the technology area of the cave. The platform rose to just above ground level revealing one of the most advanced devices of technology. The Batmobile is a mobile base of operations that carries with it satellite interface, police bandwidth communications, twelve separate sensor displays, specified radars… everything needed to find whatever he wanted.

He pulled the cowl over the top half of his face and sat in the front seat of the Batmobile. Robin jumped into the passenger side. After an explosion of propulsion, they sped out of the caverns.

The Tzu's have been very reluctant to agree to the standards of street economics of Gotham. For those unfamiliar with the concept, take the lasses-faire economic module of corporations, allow everything from harassment to murder and mix in an abundant amount of hand-held, blunt objects. Such is life in the slums of Gotham's underworld.

The few with nothing stick together, amass their collected strengths and prey on the people who have little. Why not prey on the people with a lot? People with a lot of money can afford protection from government and police. Some costumed psychos like Harvey Dent and Edward Nigma are successful some times at taking from the rich; but when they themselves are confronted by the various costumed vigilantes, they're brought down, usually hard. The few who choose to go it themselves form small gangs. The Diamondbacks work the Asian area of Gotham. They've all marked themselves with two diamonds along their shoulder blades.

The Tzu's have reported them to the police on numerous occasions, but there are usually more responses from the gangs at these calls than there are from the GCPD. Each time they complain the price of protection increases. It's been months since the price of protection was more than their gross income. I ended up being a damned if you do, damned if you don't scenario for them.

The first to enter the cleaners were Squint and Krull. They were the lackeys and excited to prove themselves. Krull had the tattoos in a Celtic design where his hair should. His six foot two, 280 lb frame was intimidating without the thick metal chain he had wrapped around his waist. Squint was lanky and wore a Diego t-shirt. He had piercing all over his body because the pain of the piercing distracted him from his headaches. It's not that he was sick or anything, he just needed glasses. The bat in his hands prevented people from helping him with that problem.

They entered the shop fifteen minutes before closing. Squint ran behind the counter toward the back exists to make sure no one else left. With a smile across his face, Krull started reeking havoc within the shop. Tzu Yar was behind the counter. The minute they came in he immediately went into the back to calling out to Tzu Lang. Lang was heard her and quickly came in from the back screaming, "Get out of here. You don't belong here."

With the baseball bat, Squint beat the back door's handle until it was thoroughly smashed. Yar was screaming in Cantonese for her husband to leave. Lang grabbed Squint by the arm and pulled him around. Squint in turn literally batted is arm away. Grabbing his own elbow, Lang howled in pain. Yar, screamed and headed towards the front door only to come in eye contact with the large built of Krull. He pushed Yar to the ground on a pile of recently tattered jackets. Lang crawled up to her and pulled his arm around her waste.

With a ringing from the door, two more men entered the Laundromat. These two were Cutter and Fingers. Fingers didn't say much, but enjoyed the pleasure of getting others to talk. Cutter was the leader of the outfit. No one knew if the scars across his chest and along his arms were self inflicted as he claimed, but they did show he had an abundance of a pain threshold.

"Two thousand dollars. Is that too much to ask?"

The couple could hear Squint in the back breaking glass and knocking over cabinets.

"I was even generous enough to make the payments every other month so you don't have to push yourself so hard. And what do I get? A visit from a patrol officer threatening me to stay away."

"It's just not right, boss."

Yar, lost in confusion just looked at Lang for his reactions, but he was emitting emotions of fear and defiance. It was difficult to tell what was going on.

"Now I've been patient with you. There's no point in me getting worked up about one old man." He pulled out a knife and started picking at his fingernails. "Now… you owe me three thousand dollars old man…"

"Get out of my shop," Lang rebelliously shouted.

Cutter looked at Fingers and nodded. Fingers grabbed Yar by the legs and pulled her away from him and Krull pushed Lang to the ground and put one large size thirteen boot on his chest.

Yar screamed more Cantonese that only further irritated the assailants. Cutter took his knife and pointed it to Lang's throat and said, "Let's face it, you wouldn't give me that much if you had it. So we're down to two solutions here. In both cases we're going to make an example of you. Either you're going to make it easy for us or hard for us." With a cruel venomous whisper, he added, "I really hope you make it hard for us."

"Hey, where's Squint?"

The question came from Krull who was the first to notice a lack of smashing in the back room. Cutter looked up from Lang with a curious look on his face. He looked at Fingers for advice, but he just shook his head. He pulled out a revolver and nodded to Krull.

Krull crept into the back of the store. He moved aside a few isles of dry-cleaned coats and peered around. He looked in at an office in the back, the glass shattered and scattered across the pavement below.

A muffled shouting rose from the far reaches of the back. He slowly moved aside a group of coats to reveal a costumed red and green clad hero crouching over a tied up and muzzled Squints.

"I'm just saying that you might have a slight stigmatism."

"Mmmm mmm mm mmmmm mnh."

"Trust me, if you get it checked out you'll feel a lot better. You don't even have to wear glasses, you could get contacts… or you could even call you rich parents and have them pay for the surgery."

Krull unwrapped the chain from around his waste and screamed back to the other two in the front, "We have trouble."

Robin looked up and saw Krull coming toward him with "I have to get the big guy too? Come on!"

Immediately the lights in the cleaners went out.

Fingers and Cutter stood straight up. Cutter yelled as loud as he could, "Everybody out."

He was interrupted by the thick dark figure weaving through the darkness toward Cutter's arm. Cutter got two shots off, before a hand of immense strength and force grabbed his wrist and hyper extended it preventing him from pulling the trigger. A quick jab from the darkness landed directly on his collarbone pushing him back and off balance. Mysterious hand never lost the grip of the hyper extended wrist twisting Cutter to the ground. The gun twisted in his arms Cutter was forced to let go of the revolver.

In the back, Krull swung his chain toward the teenager with all the strength he could. Robin pulled a staff from behind him and batted at the chain getting it tangled. He planted the staff on the ground and pivoted laterally getting his left heel to make contact with Krull's chin. Krull fell back a few steps but caught himself in time to retaliate with a strong left hook. Robin hooked his elbow around Krull's and used his momentum to swing onto Krull's back. Using two thick padded gloves, Robin pounded on Krull's temples sending a searing pain throughout his head. Krull reeled in pain and thrashed about tossing Robin away from him. He staggered two steps that Robin used to throw a bola toward his legs tangling them up completely knocking him off balance. One quick upward thrust as Krull fell to the base of the neck increased the effect temporarily knocking Krull out.

As quickly as he could he ran toward the front of the store.

Fingers took a small rod and started swinging it at Batman. Batman caught the rod with his forearm and secured it against his shoulder. He then side kicked Fingers in the mid torso pushing him back five feet. Cutter was up by this time wrapping his arms around Batman's neck and around his left arm. Batman put his legs up on a nearby counter and pushed himself off Cutter fell back and Batman fell on top of him winding him for just a second. Batman used his momentum to roll back onto his feet and looked for Fingers. Fingers had gotten up and had Cutter's gun in his hands. Batman leapt toward Fingers. He pointed the revolver at Batman. Batman grabbed him by the elbow and pushed the revolver away. It was only at that moment that Batman realized the gun was pointing toward a standing Lang.

A thwip sound was heard and Lang's knee buckled. Fingers pulled the trigger. The bullet just missed the falling Lang. Batman twisted Finger's arm behind his back and lifted him tossing him toward Cutter. The move simultaneously disarmed Fingers and Batman held the gun in his hand.

Batman held the gun in his hand and looked at them searing holes in their souls. Cutter was the first to react pushing Fingers toward Batman and running toward the door.

Batman grabbed Fingers by the collar of his Jacket and hip tossed him hard onto the pavement below them. A quick right hook across his face knocked him out cold.

Robin jumped toward Cutter and grabbed him by the waist. Cutter tried to stagger to his feet, but he just came face to face with Batman.

Cutter started backing away saying, "Hey, man… I didn't mean anything, I swear!"

Behind him he heard, "Yeah, I'm sure that'll help you case." He turned around to see Robin dusting himself off. Cutter looked back to the immediate threat of Batman. Robin then continued, "Don't get me wrong, I prefer you being a sniveling worm that gives up quickly than a hard headed idiot who fights until we have to really hurt you."

Batman looked behind him and glared at Robin. The whites of his eyes thinned to mere slits in the rubber. Robin nodded and turned away. He walked over to Lang to check the back of his knee. On his way to Lang, he reached out his hand and grabbed the batarang he threw.

Batman turned his attention to Cutter. His eyes pierced through him and he said, "I want you to get the word out to the other Diamondbacks, slime ball. Their protection ring is over. I'm protecting Gotham. If I hear a second hand rumor about anyone with a Diamondback tattoo harassing another shop owner, I'll be coming after every single one. Individually… Personally. Do you understand?"

Cutter had a panicked expression smeared across his face. He nodded complacently crying, "Yeah… Y-Yes… Yes, sir."

Batman was inches away, "Will you turn yourself in peacefully, or will you need persuasion?"

His eyes darted back and forth and asked, "How am I supposed to get the message back to the others if I'm in prison?"

In one quick motion, Cutter is slammed against a wall and a giant fist slammed right next to his head. "You have one phone call. Use it to call your guys off. If you don't, then it becomes my problem. And I'm… very good at solving problems. Do you understand?"

After a moment's hesitation, a tranquilizer dart lands in his neck surprising Cutter, screaming to unconsciousness. Batman looked to Robin holding blow dart gun in his hand and shrugging. "What? He took to long to answer."

With almost inhuman speed, Batman handcuffed the two gang members in the front lobby. Batman darted out into the shadows and was gone. Robin was left looking around and went to the Tzus. He reached into his utility belt and pulled out an envelope. He crouched down to their level on the ground and smiled. "Hey, listen. I'm going to need you to call the number on the envelope. An officer Walker is on duty patrolling this area. Those handcuffs actually standard police issued, we just kinda designed them with the bat theme, because… well… I guess we're just bored."

Lang looked back at Robin confused as to what was going on at that moment. Robin continues, "Also, there's about four thousand dollars in the envelope to help pay for whatever damages were done the insurance companies won't dish out, okay?"

Lang's eyes widened at the information of what was in the envelope. He immediately opened it up to flip through the bills within. Robin chuckled a little and said, "Thanks for having the guts to call the police on this. Remember, call that number. I'm pretty sure you're going to want these guys gone before they wake up all tied up and swearing up a storm." With that, he jumped into the darkness and was gone.

Batman and Robin sat inside the Batmobile racing toward the jeweler. Robin looked out the side window thinking of the choice words he had to use. There was something wrong and it was going to become a problem fairly soon. Nine different ways to disarm Fingers, and he chose to do so laterally with conscious people in the area. That's practically impossible. He was staring at that fingerprint for five straight minutes before he spoke up. Tim rarely saw Bruce as distracted as he has been, and never to the point of being so oblivious to his surroundings.

For the first time in recent memory, Batman broke the silence. "What happened with Krull?"

Robin's eyes darted to Batman. "Excuse me?"

Batman continued to drive, eyes forward. "He was able to warn the others. There was no way to get the drop on them… you were supposed to incapacitate him before he had a chance to warn the others."

Robin incredulously looked out the window. Under his breath, Robin huffed, "I don't believe this."

"Don't dismiss it. You were given an order and you chose to disobey."

Robin turned straight to him. "There was no way. The tranquilizer would have pinched him and given him fifteen seconds of which is exactly fourteen seconds more than he needed to yell "Run". He was a big guy in close quarters, so gasses would have had me unconscious before him."

Robin took a moment's pause before continuing. "And we both know that the only way that was badly managed was you wrenching his gun away instead of popping his wrist. If I hadn't been there Lang would have been shot."

"I needed you to follow orders."

"No, you need to stop trying to ignore whatever's distracting you."

Batman took his eyes off the road for a second to read Robin's expression. He wasn't being confrontational to establish a sense of dominance; he was just factually assessing the situation. Bruce let it sit for a moment.

"Whatever it is, you're not it go. Knowing you, you're just going to push it away and work on a bunch of other cases to convince yourself you're too busy, but through all of them, you're still going to let yourself be distracted until it finally hits you in the face."

Batman's face went as solid as ever. He just looked straight ahead, thinking, "He doesn't understand."

Robin looked away again. He'd finished what he had to say. Batman knew he was right about how his mind was someplace else. Robin also knew he would only be able to tell from his future reactions whether he agreed with him. Only time would tell.

Robin was extremely surprised at a verbal response from Batman.

"Anything else?"

Robin cracked a smile and chuckled. "Yeah… did you actually say 'slime ball'."

... to be continued

* * *

This didn't really have anything to do with solving the mystery, that comes up in the next chapter... this is just because I got bored with logistics and wanted to get into character. If it's better to concentrate on logistics, tell me.


	3. Chapter 2

I'm attempting to speed up the production of these chapters. If the writer's getting bored writing it, chances are you're getting bored choosing not read it. Nevertheless... here are two chapters. I ended them where I felt like I was just babling on.

* * *

Many have heard of corruption in the police department of Gotham City. Back when the mobs ran Gotham's underworld, that corruption let murderers walk home to their families without any worries of conviction. That was when the corruption was easy. Whenever a good cop saw another police officer ignoring the rules of a crime scene investigation, there was no doubt to which morals he stood by. That corruption leads one of two ways. On the rare and more pure occasion, that corruption would be ferreted out by honest, hard working District Attorneys who sometimes lost their lives; or worse, everything they love. They'd risk their lives for the ideal that the system worked. They believed that if they were smart enough, strong enough and "good" enough the system would work and the good guys would win.

GCPD took the easy way out. They allowed good corruption to overtake the bad. At first, they resisted the vigilantes like any other system would. Strong willed officers tried to arrest the intervening Batman on numerous occasions. Then, Batman was able to influence Jim Gordon. That was the beginning of good corruption. Jim Gordon would let leak sensitive information to be leaked to the vigilante and he'd bring in an arrest. Crime scenes were abandoned overnight and the next day, witnesses, suspects and ballistics reports would magically be tied up nicely. It was like Santa Claus obstructing justice. Eventually, the honest officers learned to look the other way as often as the dishonest ones. The only exception was Harvey Bullock… it didn't end well for him.

When Officer Derek saw officer Abrams seal off Steinbeck's jewelers and turn off any video feed from the security cameras, only officer Abrams could know where the corruption goes. All officer Derek could do was look away and hopes IAD never asks why he chose that time to get coffee.

Inside, Robin looked through papers on the inventory and Batman was visualizing the break-in. He was visualizing the motions. Batman had interfaced with the security systems to make him and Robin phantoms within the shop.

The jeweler had three floors to it. The first floor was designated the window shopping floor. This was the floor where the average shopper would look around at the basic rings, bracelets and necklaces for general showing. The jewels were placed in glass counters that had an impressive alarm system. The wires ran along the base and dropped to the basement, preventing jumping the wires or bypassing the circuit. At the press of a button every night, a thin steel gate crept over the inventory. The only way of opening it was inputting the code in the basement and disabling the silent alarm. There were two large reinforced doors leading to the other two floors as well as an emergency fire exit in the back leading to the alleyway.

The steel door on the left led to the second floor which was used as the showroom for valued patrons. It was lined with black velvet with bulletproof Plexiglas. Lights in the displays let the jewels glitter practically doubling their worth. Nothing was left here overnight. Every morning and every night, the inventory here was brought into the basement.

In the basement, were the offices and vaults where the all expensive things were kept. It was your basic foot thick steel, walk-in vault with both digital and dial combination locks. Twenty four hour surveillance and alarm system should have made it impassable.

"Smiley knew what he was getting. He took almost everything between five thousand and thirty thousand that isn't recognizable as an antique. It's easy to sell the pieces over the black market with the right connections."

Batman broke concentration momentarily. He looked at Robin and simply stated, "It wasn't Smiley. Only one piece of evidence that points to an otherwise professional job doesn't mean it is more likely to be left purposefully. The question is, what it means and why?"

Batman looked around at the upper areas of the jeweler's shop. He pressed the button on his mask that zoomed and focused on certain areas around the cameras.

Robin walked down the stairs to the basement. He walked without caution toward the offices. There were no windows, but there was quality ventilation. It was possible the thief used those, but there wasn't any evidence of activity anywhere near those lines. He paged through various papers around the desks.

He called up from the basement toward Batman, "Are you hoping to see something you didn't see yesterday?"

Batman rolled his eyes immediately planning a future refresher course in stealth. "I wasn't here yesterday."

Curiosity led him to the next question. "You let this be a day old crime scene? That's a first."

There was no evidence whatsoever of forced entry or exit. No evidence of technological tampering or rough wiring. In fact, there was no evidence of an actual burglary, except for the obvious evidence of missing inventory.

Robin came up from the basement holding a handful of papers. "How did you get Smiley's fingerprint?"

"It was from the police report Jim gave me last night. Our computers confirmed it."

Robin nodded and then held up a handful of photos.

"Here are a few pictures of the items that weren't taken."

A quick glance at the first three pictures showed a pattern Batman wanted to deny.

"Why do you think he left anything with pearls?"

Batman shifted through he pictures.

"They're too large. Pearls are very heavy for their worth."

"That makes sense for some of the pieces, but some of these earrings are surrounded by three carat diamonds. That's definitely worth burden of the pearls."

Batman paused for a moment and responded, "They're also organic. It's possible they're becoming harder to transport."

Robin stopped as if he'd just been hit. Dumbfounded, he asked, "Don't you think that's reaching a bit? Nobody's going to do a DNA analysis of pearls. You'd need to chip them for a sample of the DNA prior to them being traceable. After you chip them, they're useless. No, there has to be something else to it."

"We have to find out who and how before we find out why." Batman scanned the entire room with the interface device in his utility belt. Robin placed his hands on his hips as he thought out loud what was known.

"The alarm logs didn't show any code being entered during the robbery; but then again, we've set up the alarm to ignore us too. Most likely, a hacker was involved."

"There's no physical evidence of anyone actually being here. That means one of three things. The robber was either extremely talented physically, a meta or magician using superhuman abilities to hide the truth, or he designed mechanical hardware to move through here undetected."

Robin smiled and scratched the top of his head saying, "You've just described your entire rogue gallery."

Batman continued, "The dial combination was memorized and provided by the manufacturer. The combination used on the vault's digital pad was personalized. The hacker could have bypassed the digital lock but he had to know the dial combination."

"The law doesn't let the manufacturers of these doors keep records of the combinations. Maybe one of the jewelers accidentally revealed the combination… or one of them was used."

Batman interjected, "I know where you're going. The Mad Hatter could have hypnotized him, but there'd be a record of the jeweler turning off the alarm. The systems have him logged turning on the alarm at seven pm and when he turned it off at six in the morning, four hundred thousand dollars in jewels were gone."

"All right. So, all we have to go on is a dead man's fingerprint, all the pearls were left behind and the guy's really good at being invisible. Let's see… the Riddler would have left the clues."

"Or Cluemaster. This robbery used stealth. If the Riddler left the clues, he had someone else commit the actual robbery."

"Great… now all we have to do is figure out a few mundane clues and interrogate the only lead we have."

"It might be worse than that. Usually, they need a string of burglaries before their clues actually reveal a pattern. With such a large take in this robbery, it's impossible to tell when another robbery like this would take place."

"There is one more option we haven't considered…" Tim didn't want to bring this up, but Bruce's been avoiding a few opportunities, it was very possible there was one more.

Batman continued for him. "Even if Riddler or Cluemaster were involved… Neither one of them would have been this good. They needed help."

"Someone who can physically be able to be invisible to technology, athletic and talented enough to evade detection… avoid leaving any evidence."

"Catwoman would be the obvious suspect… but she's rehabilitated. There's also metas who could levitate… pass through walls."

"I could call Nightwing down here. If anyone could find a way in here without detection or meta-human powers… he could."

"I don't think that's necessary. How it was done will reveal itself." Let's get back… we've collected all we need for now."

Batman left first… he walked straight out the back door. Robin was behind him. He hesitated for a moment. He thought to himself… "What is going on? Is this leading to something?" The more he thought of it… the more he didn't like the questions.

He shook those feelings and remembered the one rule Robins ever needed to always remember… "trust him."

* * *


	4. Chapter 3

There once was a beautiful mansion. It stood atop a great hill far from its neighbors. It was handed down to the eldest son of the most prestigious family of the nearby city. After generations of prosperous ventures and philanthropy, the family led the city to new heights of industrialization and innovation.

The mansion faced toward the city and could see the tall buildings touch the sky. It was far enough that at night, the building's lights looked like solid lines across the horizon. The large trees and the hilly terrain areas surrounding the incline of the mansions exterior kept it so separate from the city, but there retained some veined connection.

Inside the mansion was a small training room. It had a matted floor mirrored walls and high arched ceilings. On two opposing walls were hidden doors, one was an exit while the other was a large walk-in closet holding gis, dulled weapons, weights and other various training equipment.

Two men trained their whole lives in that room. They sparred for hours… one of them winning practically every time. They'd been apart for years and hadn't sparred nearly as often, but when they did, it was less for training, and more for pushing the limits of their abilities.

One of them stood holding both hands open palm and relaxed wrists in front of him. One hand was inches below chest level and the other just beyond eye. His stance was tight for a long leap or pounce. The other had a solid defensive stance. His legs were far apart, his right shoulder facing his opponent. His right arm was extending his back defense and his left arm was in front of him to parry attacks to his front. Both his arms were fists.

The Dick could never break Bruce's defenses. Every time he came close, he found himself on the floor. He's been studying his stance for three minutes… patiently observing where his stance might be weaker for an unanticipated strike. Dick decided to use an old technique that almost won once… confusion. He leapt to Bruce's legs planted his hand on the floor. Bruce feinted the obvious sweep and lifted his knee to his chest. With incredible speed and strength, Dick stopped mid sweep and pushed off his planed hand. He posted on the sweeping left leg and was able to raise his right heel high enough to catch the back of Bruce's head. There wasn't enough force to do any damage, but it got the hit in and that was enough to brag about. Surprisingly, Bruce beat away the weak attack with his left arm. Dick was able to use the momentum to swing his elbow just onto Bruce's shoulder. Dick immediately lifted his pivoting leg to see Bruce's right leg try to sweep it. Continuing the momentum, Dick swung his pulled both his legs together and use centrifugal force to knock Bruce off balance and fall on his face. Bruce was able to roll with his fall, but Dick was more than able to lock a chicken wing arm lock as Bruce tried to rise to his feet. With more strength than he liked to show to his opponents and allies, he lifted Dick off the ground through the lock flipping Dick onto his back. Dick didn't anticipate the sheer strength of lifting a human body from such a low stance, but was able to laterally roll out clutching Bruce's wrist. Dick stopped the roll out halfway through escape and reversed the wrist lock to hyper extend the wrist. At first, the pain forced Bruce to wince in pain. He had twist his arm bend his elbow and roll out, even though he knew Dick had his left leg in position behind his shoulder. Bruce rolled bent the elbow getting his arm locked in a reverse twisting arm bar. Dick pushed up from the ground, held Bruce's hyper extended wrist with one hand and rolled out on top resting his other free elbow on the back of Bruce's neck.

"This would be one of the proudest moments of my life if I believed for one second you were actually trying."

After a moment's pause and two grunts from Bruce, Dick relinquished his hold.

"I wasn't expecting you to feint."

Dick didn't know what to say. He'd fought Bruce a thousand times… he almost always feinted his first attack when Bruce took a defensive stance.

"Fine. Don't talk about it. I'm sure you won't mull about it for years, plan for every conceivable way of preventing it from happening again and then allowing those plans to cause a huge mistake that'll threaten the world only to then realize that it could have been avoided if you just talked about it."

Bruce stared Dick down this time with his stoic unfeeling face.

"I'm just saying that confiding in someone might help you."

"Dick, don't ever say I need counseling."

"For crying out loud. I'm not saying you need to say something about this to me to see a new perspective or advise. You've probably analyzed every aspect of the situation and preplanned a couple of contingencies. You don't need anyone to help you and no one can stop you."

Bruce grabbed a nearby towel and started wiping sweat off of his forehead. He'd broken attention from the "new age" logic Dick was throwing at him. As great a friend he was, not even he could understand.

"I am here to listen, Bruce."

"You stopped being my soundboard a long time ago Dick."

"That's not what this is about is it? This isn't one of those 'Rethinking your life and having hang-ups about how we broke company' things, is it?"

Bruce lowered his head and shook it. "No… we've been through that so many times, it's become a cliché. I'm just upset you've not done more for yourself since."

"You didn't hear? I've got one win against the Batman under my belt."

Pride struck Bruce at that instant. "You won a sparring match against Bruce Wayne… there's a difference."

"Not to me." Dick left the room first with a smirk across his face.

Bruce thought to himself how lucky he was that Dick was gone… he might have caught Bruce cracking a smile.

If only for an instant.


	5. Chapter 4

Yeah, I know it's been a while... sorry. This is what I got this time.

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Bruce Wayne sat in his cave in a tailored suit. His shadowed beard and muffed hair would take mere moments to clean up before his obligations of being CEO were begun. He sat in his cave looking at his equipment. Millions of dollars in research equipment… he can solve any crime.

The auction was a week ago. It's been distracting him the whole time. Even as Bruce Wayne, his attention lingers slightly away from the contracts he's reading staring at the patterns of white and black.

He's letting this get to him. Why?

It would've taken less than five minutes to check the box. In five minutes, he could've found out the truth. Yet all he's done is think about it. Why not find out? Was he afraid it was nothing? That the building up the hopes of finding that one long lost murderer was snuffed once again. Or was he afraid that it was something? That he was about to take the first step to solving a mystery he could never walk away from. Some men would hesitate to find the proof of God's existence because they'd loose their faith. In that same realm, maybe he was afraid that finding the truth of why he does this will change him… prevent him from pushing himself beyond the limits of man. As he was then, he was a legend in his own right. His training and drive made him a modern day Ulysses… a mere man amongst Gods.

No… that wasn't it. Robin, Nightwing, Oracle, Huntress… all of them were pushed by a similar force. So, why doesn't he find out the truth?

He asked himself one final time.

Five minutes was all it would take.

Why not?

His body turned with decisiveness. It was as if he'd just allowed himself to do what he truly wanted to do. His hard soled shoes echoed loudly, two steps were taken before the sound had bounced off the walls of the cave. Each step was he climbed was lighter than the last. He was determined to find the truth.

He pushed the pedestrian exit to the cave. The grandfather clock on the anterior side of the doorway almost bounced against the bookcase to its side.

Alfred, the vigilant butler, had a comb and electric Gillette razor in hand as Bruce passed him.

"I've taken the liberty of informing Mr. Fox of your--"

"One moment Alfred…"

As Bruce raced up the stairs, Alfred's informative tone faded to a mumble to himself.

"--decision to avoid every word I say. Time table be damned."

Bruce opened the door to the guest room housing the chest he'd purchased earlier that week. Without pausing or taking his eyes off the chest, he'd reached on at nearby dresser for a metallic clothing brush. He approached in an instant and lift the lid of the chest using the handle of the clothing brush to dislodge the pearls from the mouth. With surgeon like precision, he was able to dislodge the largest one in the center. On the fifth pearl, they no longer fit comfortably in his hands, so he pocketed them. As he got to the ninth pearl along the lid, he was beginning to feel an acidic worry in the pit of his stomach. His resolve was shaking. As were his hands. On the fifteenth pearl, the handle slipped and nicked his hand. He tried again and successfully removed the pearl.

Twenty pearls.

Twenty-two pearls.

He didn't stop until all thirty nine pearls were removed.

Without caring whether or not anything was still organized within the room, he left back out the hall and down the stairs. Alfred was rigidly standing with his Gillette razor in one hand and a comb in the other. He continued where he left off during the last encounter.

"--presence at tonight's board meeting may be--"

As he passed Alfred by, he placed the clothing brush still in his hand in Alfred's lapel jacket pocket. He was undeterred and continued back towards the doorway to the cave vanishing into the depths of his personal asylum.

Alfred once again mumbled to himself, "--as completely ignored as the apparent lint on my jacket. Well, at least his subtlety is in tact."

Bruce marched down the stairs, gravity not being the only unforeseen force building his momentum toward is computers.

He stood in front of a seven foot 3-d scanner. It was half a perfect cube raised three inches off the ground and a little upturned lip along the bottom. He emptied his pockets into the scanner and approached the large twenty foot screen of what Robin used to call "the Bat-computer".

He inputted a couple of codes into the attached keyboard in front of it and initialized vocal identification and input.

"Computer scan images ."

A light emanated from the sides of the scanner.

Bruce leaned against the back of the chair he sat in many nights in leather, Kevlar and cloth. In seconds the images displayed themselves on the screen.

"Computer display images on 3-d holographic projection ."

Instantly, the display on the computer blanked out. Red and green lights emanated fifteen feet away inside a halo like table. The lights intercepted each other and slowly revealed themselves to be the images of the pearls.

"Computer rotate image 90 degrees along z axis, 90 degrees clockwise x axis and zoom in 300 percent. "

The computer immediately did as he asked the pearls were now the size of small softballs hovering lightly above the halo shaped table.

"Computer identify all pearls with obvious repair marks. "

The computer responded vocally in it's emotionless monotone, "Please, specify."

Batman rolled his eyes in frustration. "Computer isolate all pearls with two discolored marks… circles about a millimeter in diameter "

27 pearls hovering vanished. 12 remained. "Computer what are the varying sizes of remaining pearls "

The computer responded, "point zero, zero, two millimeters."

They're almost the exact same size, he thought to himself. "Computer are the marks perfectly positioned in the middle of the pearls "

"Negative. There is a variance in the axis of the pearl by an approximation of one point three millimeters."

"Computer based on the location of the holes, what is the probability of remaining pearls being a part of a necklace? "

After a series of hums and clicks, the computer responded, "Sixty-seven percent."

Bruce wondered a moment. "Computer estimate the order if it was a necklace and display. "

The pearls rotated around a couple of times for a minute until the computer paused with a display of the pearls in an order.

"There are two hundred and thirty seven possibilities for the order. Highest probability is forty seven point two percent."

"Computer based on the altered diameter of the holes, what is the estimated size of the necklace?

There was another bout of clicks and hums… finally the computer said, "The estimation is 38 centimeters."

Bruce felt his stomach sink at hearing that. He could almost hear the back of his mind think: please don't be eight, please don't be eight.

"Computer based on this information, what is the estimated number of missing pearls? "

Upstairs, Alfred was talking taking up his duties as public relations agent for Bruce's difficult to manage schedule canceling.

"Yes, I realize he's been putting off the acquisition of the McTierney account, Mr. Fox. Regrettably, he's currently preoccupied."

Mr. Fox's voice was annoyed and strained on the other end of the telephone. "Alfred, I'm going to need you to give it to me straight. We'd like him to be here for the sake of having the face of Wayne enterprises… we can do the job without him, but it's a bit more courteous for the man who is taking in someone else's company to actually be here. Can he show up at all to the meeting?"

At that moment, the telecom behind him flashed as the voice of Bruce Wayne called out in a distant voice, "Alfred. You're going to have to cancel all my appointment's for the day… I'm… uh… yeah, just do it."

Alfred turned in concern to the voice of his employer. Never before had he heard indecisiveness in his voice.

"Well, looks like I got my answer."

Alfred was immediately taken back to reality and responded to Fox's disappointment.

"I sincerely apologize Mr. Fox. I assure you, he'll definitely stop by when he is available."

"It's alright, Alfred. I just needed to know his definitively whether he was going to be here or not. We'll just send the paper work his way when he's available."

"Thank you for your service, Mr. Fox."

Alfred hung up the phone and looked toward the dark, opening left open toward the cave. "Now, what?"

To be continued...


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

All that Miss Fanshaw needed at that moment was for a large pile of bricks to fall from a great height and land on top of every single intern she had to deal with at the moment. She briefly remembered a time where she had been known for the patience of a saint. That particular concept now seemed so very foreign to her, as Stanley Rourbeck once again forewent labeling any of the outgoing portraits in the belief that it would be more efficient to make all the labels at the same time.

"… And how are we going to tell which portrait is which if they're in their crates?"

"Simple, we go by their shapes."

The thought of a crate of dumbbells falling from a great height flashed into her mind?

"Stanley… They're paintings. They're all the same shape. Everything from the one thousand dollar painting to the one million dollar painting."

"Yeah, but their dimensions are different."

"Not all of them Stanley. Some of them are the same size."

"Yeah, well, we'll open up those ones to see which of the paintings it is."

"So your plan is to save time by opening up the packages you sealed to identify the picture you were supposed to label regardless of the possibility of being wrong."

"Yeah."

The thought of an anvil falling from a great height flashed into her mind … Did they still make anvils? This had to be the reason there were people in tights robbing banks in this city.

"Stanley, you have until tomorrow to sort this out."

"I don't need that much time. Just give me a few minutes to go over--"

"STANLEY!" She paused, holding her breath and remembered that pesky fifth commandment. "Open up every crate. Find out which painting is which and label the boxes."

"But--"

"--And if you don't do as I say, I'm going to correct your mistakes without your knowledge so when you bring your hair brained concepts to the actual work field, your mistakes will get you rightfully blacklisted from the art community."

Stanley paused for a moment, as he processed what she had just said. Miss Fanshaw walked away before he could retort. A smiling Donald Sizemore had observed the exchange. He flagged her down and approached.  
"Usually threats are supposed to be unrealistic. You know, like causing them large amounts of pain."

She smiled and rolled her eyes, "Yeah, well, the truth is much more poetic."

"Well, I have good news. Someone was very influential at last week's auction."

She looked down and shook her head. "Oh, God. Please, don't remind me of that."

Donald put his arm on her shoulder and gave a slight squeeze. "No, I'm serious. I just received a call from Mr. Wayne."

A curious blend of fear and confusion overwhelmed her. "When?"

"I just got off the phone with him; he's on his way here right now."

_There are two different reactions to hearing that the richest man in the city is coming to see you. The first is the foolishly optimistic belief that he's going to come through those doors, declare his undying love for you and whisk you off to the Caribbean, away from the grime of Gotham. The other is the pessimistic conviction that he's going to come through those doors and crush you for doing something wrong you didn't know you did wrong while you were doing it._

On the whole, Miss Fanshaw considered herself a realist, but at that point, she was inarguably a pessimist.

"Wha--? Did he say anything about why?"

"No, he just said he wanted to talk to you in person regarding the auction."

Her mind raced with options and possibilities… something an intelligent person should rarely do when they're inarguably a pessimist. The thoughts kept coming: What happened? Was I not impressive enough? Did I accidentally ship him the wrong Pascel? Is he embarrassed he picked up the Liest painting? I knew I shouldn't have insulted it. God, I insulted all the paintings. What if he listened to me? What if he is upset because I convinced him not to buy something he wanted? What if he _didn't_ listen to me and is upset because I didn't convince him not to waste his money on that stupid Corruvian vase?

Each thought needed its own breath.

"Cynthia? What's wrong? You're hyperventilating."

"He barely listened to me. I told him about a couple of paintings, but all he was interested in was the Samson Brothers chest."

"I know. If you can sell him that, imagine what else you could--"

"I told him not to buy it."

"Well, that's even better. Hit him and tell him to go to hell and he'll probably make a generous contribution."

There was an awkward silence in the limo. Alfred's reaction to the finding was unreadable even to himself. He had seen Master Bruce led down this path innumerable times. He observed the master had caught a hint of the solution many times, only to discover duplicity and betrayal. Such events would most certainly discourage most men from continuing. Once again, Bruce's curious drive propelled him along.

In the back seat, Bruce Wayne went over the facts in his head.

A twenty-pearl necklace. Eight pearls had been recovered in the alley behind the theater. The murderer had twelve pearls.

Obviously, there were hundreds of similar necklaces. There was no way to prove that all the pearls were from the same one. Even if they were, the odds of them all being used to repair the same chest… the same chest that he would find in an auction decades later… At this time. With these laws being introduced. The more he thought of the odds, 

the more unlikely it seemed that this was a true lead.

But there was another option he was considering. One that he had considered many times before.

"You don't think this is real, Alfred."

Alfred glanced into the rear mirror to momentarily acknowledge his old friend. "Sir, I'm sure you are well aware of the odds."

"The odds are almost impossible."

"Then why do you choose to pursue this endeavor?"

"When the odds are this unlikely, coincidence is no longer an option. The evidence is most likely manipulated."

"Manipulated? Sir, are you suggesting that someone is toying with you?"

Batman looked out the side window for a moment. "Most likely, yes. What I don't know is who. Who is putting this in my lap? I also don't know whether it's a manipulation of just Bruce Wayne or of me."

Alfred interjected immediately. "Sir, we've been over this before… you _are_ Bruce Wayne."

Bruce glanced back at Alfred. "Of course. What I meant, was that I don't know if the manipulator is aware that Batman and Bruce Wayne are one and the same."

"How do you mean, sir?"

"In the recent jewelry heist, the robbers blatantly neglected to take the pearls. There isn't much of a connection between Bruce Wayne and Steinbeck's Jewelers. However, it is a difficult crime to solve; one which would involve Batman."

"So… Who then are your suspects?"

"The people who fit the motive and know my identity are Ra's Al Ghul, Bane and Hush. However, if someone were to figure out my identity… at this point, it could be anyone."

"Well, hopefully it won't be Maximus Zeus."

Bruce asked, "Why not him?"

"Well, sir, if I'm going to jinx the investigation, I might as well use a member of your rogue's gallery that is somewhat dimwitted and overachieving."

The dry wit, Alfred thought to himself, seemed, at that moment, slightly out of place. Batman had been tested and manipulated so many times in the past. Every time, Batman had come back stronger than ever; unfortunately, Bruce Wayne was continuously scarred. Alfred didn't know how much more Bruce's humanity could take before the legend he'd become overwhelmed him.

"So why are you going to meet the young lady in person?"

"The case is the key to this. It's the first bit of information. It was obviously manipulated into my lap. What I have to do now is determine _how_ it was manipulated."

"You're going to interrogate Miss Fanshaw?"

"She doesn't have a lot to gain, but she has a lot to lose."

"Aside from her job?"

"Nightwing mentioned that Miss Fanshaw's niece is autistic. The cost of raising an autistic child could prohibits some people from living out the lives they wish to lead. The threat of losing a lifestyle a person desires to have because of someone they love leaves them open to compromising their morals."

Alfred slowed the car in front of the museum's entrance. Without looking back, he said, "Sir, you've learned a long time ago that detaching emotion and being completely analytical are two entirely different things."

"What do you--?"

"All I'm saying is, if you're going to pursue this… you're never going to maintain your objectivity."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Help."

Bruce needed a momentary pause. While the answer was obvious, he needed to let the thought sink in.

"I have to do this myself Alfred."

"Sir--"

"Not about this. I have to know. I have to know for myself."

Bruce Wayne opened the car door and walked up the granite steps towards the golden doors of the museum. Alfred responded in a voice only he could hear, but prayed it would somehow reach his surrogate son's mind. "Realize you're not alone… no matter whether you wish to be."

Miss Fanshaw paced back and forth within the lobby. Her nerves kept her on her toes. Her mind was a torrent of questions. _What does he want? Does he want to return the chest? Does he want to donate for the next auction? Is he upset with me? Should I update my resume? Would it look better if I were busy? I_ am _busy. Maybe I should get an intern to make it look like I'm busy._

She had take two steps towards the back room when she heard someone in the distance calling her name.

"Miss Fanshaw."

She winced and turned around.

Escape was no longer an option… now she had to deal.

"Mr. Wayne. I was just about to get an intern."

"What for?"

After a torturously long pause, she finally decided to respond with the truth. "I don't know."

Reasoning through what she had just said and what it meant was too much for the greatest detective at that moment.

"I trust the auction was a success?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Wayne. The ACF and the AGS really appreciated your contributions at the auction. I'm sure the Gotham museum will also welcome the Touteux."

"Thank you."

"How can I help you, Mr. Wayne?"

"Miss Fanshaw, there were some things that I wanted to clarify about last week."

"Clarify?"

"Is there some place we could talk?"

She thought of her office, but at that moment her belief was that the wrath of the rich are tempered by public eyes.

"We _are _busy right now… Yes, well, we could talk over by the stairwell."

They moved to the top of the stairwell. They stood facing each other with Bruce Wayne's back pointed towards the doorway. Enough people would be around to witness any hostilities without hearing the details of the conversation itself. '

"So, how can I help you, Mr. Wayne?"

"Yes…it's about the piece which I personally purchased."

"The Samson Brothers' chest?"

"Why did you have the chest at the auction?"

The feeling in her legs dulled. _He didn't like the chest_?

"The chest still has value, Mr. Wayne. While the refurbishing may have affected it's overall value, the fact that it was created during such a momentous time period keeps it in high demand."

"And who donated it?"

Bruce Wayne's eyes observed the information. Her eyebrows had collected sweat. She wouldn't hold eye contact. Her hands were slightly fidgety. His mind processed the details automatically. _She's nervous_. _Why_?

"A foreign industrialist named François Sedais. He's donated several of his possessions to our organization, over the years, in exchange for some kind of write-off for his company. The chest was no different than any of the other pieces."

"Well, why did you display it so prominently?"

"Excuse me?"

"It wasn't a very noticeable piece. However, it was positioned so that all passersby would see it."

"That is the whole point of a display, Mr. Wayne."

"That's true, but--"

"Mr. Wayne, I'm a little confused. Is this about the chest itself?"

Miss Fanshaw looked behind her to Mr. Sizemore.

Bruce Wayne never moved his eyes from her nervous features. Her posture. Her fidgets… they told so much, but nothing specific. With his peripheral vision, he sized up her employer. _Does he know something? Does she know something about him?_

"Mr. Wayne, if you're upset about the piece, while we'll be unable to reimburse you, we may have the option of exchanging it for something of equal value."

"I'm not dissatisfied with the chest."

A pause. What was his meaning?

"Well, good. I'm glad. We aim to please."

"But was I meant to like it."

"Excuse me?"

"Did Mr. Sedais request that particular item to be sold?"

She pondered that for a moment. She'd personally never met him. What did he mean? "Did he request the items he donated to the auction to be sold? I'd imagine so."

"Why would he ask full price for a refurbished item?"

The questions kept coming, one after the other. What had she done wrong?

"Why would he want his item sold for its maximum value? I'm sorry if you feel you paid more than it was worth Mr. Wayne."

Bruce Wayne needed answers to questions he couldn't ask. Batman could find those answers. Batman could ask those questions. Batman could get what he needed.

This felt weird to her. She didn't know what to say. _Am I not understand the question_?

"I didn't mean to overstep my bounds, Miss Fanshaw. I was merely doing a bit of research of my own."

"Well, the history is rich surrounding this item."

"I mean I researched you."

Fear stung her heart. _What had he found? Was I off on my taxes? Should I have done them instead of the intern?  
_

"Your niece has autism correct?"

"My neice? Yes… She's autistic. That's one of the main reasons we donated such a large percentage of the proceeds to-"

"Yes, your donations help the school. But St. Katherine's school couldn't exactly ease the burden of the tuition itself. That's something Tyler's family has to pay independently."

She paused. This seemed so much more than conventional research. He knew her name, her school… even her fees?  
"What exactly are you asking Mr. Wayne?"

"Simply this, Miss Fanshaw. Your financial burden is hard. Perhaps if someone approached you… and asked you to do something… something simple and easy, but this person offered to pay you well for that service."

In an instant, the expression in her eyes changed. As before, she looked like she was hiding something. Her gaze constantly shifted, as though she was searching for answers. She no longer showed fear, but anger and seething defiance. He knew what she was going to do next… but as Bruce Wayne, he could not prevent it.

She drew her right hand back and threw her fist as quickly as she could towards his left eye.

"Go to hell!" She screamed.

The pain of being hit was all too familiar for Batman, but for Bruce Wayne, the billionaire playboy, it was a matter of selling the injury. He twisted his head and accepted the brunt of the blow, but he was unprepared for the feeling afterwards. She wasn't involved. She couldn't have been. Could she have been? _What am I doing?_

She turned sharply, holding back tears of anger. She felt like she was about to explode… but she couldn't do it here. Not yet. She quickened her pace. On her way towards the back rooms, she saw a room filled with the wide eyes and dropped jaws of passers upon whom she had planned to prevent Mr. Wayne from doing anything drastic. Donald Sizemore was the only one to position himself in Cynthia's path.

"Jesus, Cynthia. I was kidding."

She didn't skip a beat. With one hand, she pushed him aside, moved past him and darted out the room. Donald looked back to Mr. Wayne. And quickly rushed to him with an apologetic look calling his name and trying to catch his attention.

"Mr. Wayne, I'm so sorry. I'm sure she didn't mean it. I assure you that we will take action to ensure you receive the best service possible."

There was no response.

Bruce was just looking after her retreating figure. It was almost as if he was in some trance. There was a feeling within him of "you've gone too far" and "you haven't gone anywhere yet" embattled. Donald's waving gestures for attention momentarily brought him back to reality. He shook his head as if shaking free of an idea.

"I apologize for-"

"Mr. Wayne, you have nothing to apologize for."

Mr. Wayne pulled a black leather-bound book out of his coat pocket, opened it and began to write in it using a miniscule pen stored within.

"Actually, I do. I was very abrasive and unprofessional. All she did was tell the truth. It should have been enough."  
He tore a check from the book and presented it to Mr. Sizemore.

Sizemore's jaw dropped in disbelief.

"Please accept this as some compensation for my unpardonable behavior."

The other man gaped as he looked down at the amount that Bruce had inscribed on the check.

"Jesus Christ, that actually worked?"


	7. chapter 6

"I see two by the gate entrance. One's keeping his gun above the front tire, the other has his in a fake block on the wall next to him."

"You can tell that from your position?"

"One guy keeps walking back to the car every forty seconds. The other's not leaving a section of the wall and one of the bricks is a lighter color."

"Okay, Robin. Can you neutralize the guns?"

Tim used turned a dial on his mask to zoom out from the armed men at the entrance of the harbor. After looking several feet in either direction, he continued talking through the bluetooth. "Not without confronting them. It's best to go around."

"Okay. I'm in the back right now by the docks. I noticed six heavily armed guys patrolling the piers. No safeties, they're planning a fight."

"What type of guns?"

"Cheap AKs. They're trying to hide them by keeping the shoulder straps and the butts under their coats, but there's no way that they can hide the clips."

"That would mean at least three more on standby inside the warehouse."

"With this type of set up, most likely there's a sniper in one of the buildings surrounding you."

Tim removed his electronic mask momentarily to take a bird's eye view of the surrounding buildings. He repositioned it when he had the desired building in his sights. He pressed the zoom button on the side of his mask to verify the position of the sniper, smiled, and responded, "yeah, I saw him setting up. He's on the roof of the Claire building on 63rd."

"Did you silence him?"

"If someone checks in with him, we'd lose the element of surprise. I wrecked the hammer on his rifle while he was setting up. The thing will jam before he gets off the first shot."

"Nice. I gotta remember that one."

"Try to favor the easternmost crates. They're out of his line of sight. I'm now at an entrance and in position to swing in to neutralize the ones inside."

"Were you able to verify the contents?"

"All I know is that Penguin's been playing it safe these last few months. This is the first trans-Atlantic shipment he's been associated with in any way. The shipping manifest lists the incoming shipment as 'toys'."

"He could be trying to make us look like fools. We could actually be intercepting a shipment of action figures."

"Would they really have twelve heavily armed guards surrounding a shipment for children's playthings?"

"Would a bunch of hard-end muscle, fresh from prison, really follow a guy whose first name is Oswald?"

"…I'll check one of the crate's numbers."

Tim pressed a small dial on his mask, which resized the digital picture display before his eyes to standard resolution. He analyzed the distance of the surrounding the warehouses on the docks, then removed a collapsible zip line from his belt and fired the hooked end towards a crane scaffold. He leaped for the target building and swung to an opened third story window, using the wind resistance of his cape to slow down shortly before he landed near the window jamb. With caution, Tim peered along the jamb to get a lateral view of the building's interior.

When he felt safe enough to relax, he continued the conversation. "Do you think it's weird we're doing this?"

"Not really. We've been doing things like this as long as I can remember."

"I don't mean that Dick, I mean… isn't it a little strange you're doing this with me instead of Batman?"

"I don't know… Robin. He needs you and me to cover for him while he's doing something else, we'll cover for him."

"Sorry." Tim found it difficult to call him 'Nightwing'. Two syllables instead of one. Although 'Batman' was always so much easier to say than 'Bruce', somehow.

"From up here, I can see three more guys looking for us."

"Yeah, there are three more guys inside using Hg-48s. They're on edge, too. That hints toward it being a real shipment."

"Or toward the Penguin's trying to catch us intercepting the package."

Tim opened the window, crept through, and climbed up into the rafters, using the sconces above to shade him. Silently, speedily he positioned himself near the offices.

"Do you want to bet on this one?"

After a twenty second pause, the voice came back through his earpiece, "What're the stakes?"

"If it's weapons, I get to use the Batmobile this weekend."

"Wow… that's big. And what if it's a trap?"

"I'll finish your forensics files for you."

There was a pause. After a few seconds, Dick came back on the line again. This time he was slightly out of breath. "Tempting."

Tim slid down a support beam and flipped to a landing just outside the warehouse's office's door. He opened the door and crouched down before slipping inside. He gave the office a once-over. There appeared to be one large desk, but it was difficult to say for certain, considering the papers discarded so wildly. Tim wasn't sure if it had already been ransacked by the criminal element… or if the office itself was just badly organized. The half-eaten Danish with a plastic fork in it suggested the later.

"Why do you want the Batmobile, anyway?"

"It'll get me as far away from here as possible."

"What?"

"Nothing." Tim's attention turned to a row of filing cabinets at his left. "Well… I was hoping to take some of the Titans out for quick joy-ride."

He pulled a low-light pen light from his belt and pointed it at the cabinet. He looked along the labels for the correct dates. Two minutes passed before he heard the next response from the other end of his ear piece.

"Wow… where does that come from?"

"I don't know. It's just, the new team is... it's just not…"

"It's not what it was?"

"No."

"It never is."

Tim found the file for the day's shipments on the incoming vessel: The Chilled Queen.

"I remember when I started on the team, we borrowed the Batmobile. We felt… together."

"Whose idea was it?"

"Kid Flash's."

Tim paused for a moment to remember the smiles on his friends' faces. Their shocked expressions when he flipped the car. His fear of telling Batman the car was destroyed... The memory took its time to sink in before Tim's attention turned back to the file in his hand.

Over the com link, Dick continued. "Look, Robin… I know, more than most anyone, the importance of friendship, but you don't want the new team to be something it was."

"I'm not, it's just… Why did it work so well the first time? I mean, every time I go to Titans Tower nowadays, I feel like someone who's forgotten how to ride a bike. How did I have fun with them? How did I enjoy wearing this mask? How did I look forward to seeing the rest of the team?"

With a strained grunt, Nightwing responded simply, "You didn't."

There was a slight creak outside the office. Tim quickly turned off his pen light and crept to the anterior side of the door. He reached into his belt for a quick-release syringe with his left hand. Waiting patiently for the door to open, he asked in a whisper, "what?"

"You hated it then. Bart was chaotic and impulsive… Pardon the pun."

"Forgiven."

Then the door swung open toward Tim. An armed six-foot-three-inch tall man took a few steps into the office. He held an automatic HG-48 sloppily in his right arm with the shoulder strap loosely wrapped around his forearm. After the newcomer cleared the door length, Tim pivoted off the door jamb, onto the man's upper back, with all his strength knocking the thug off-balance. The thug reached out his arm to steady himself. Tim used this to his advantage and wrapped one hand around the rifle near the thug's wrist, while hyper-extending his palm preventing the other man from pulling the trigger. The sudden pain forced the thug to release the handle of his weapon. Tim used his momentum to float overquickly applied a strong wrestling chokehold to prevent the thug from crying out. He injected the contents of the quick release syringe into the man's arm, close to his shoulder. Tim then pulled the gun across his victim's back with the shoulder strap catching on the man's forearm, pulling it sharply. To prevent the thug from rolling with the pain, Tim wrapped his right leg around the thug's shoulder. The thug was trapped in a sophisticated chokehold. The more he struggled, the more his pain increase. Even over the roaring of his own blood pumping through his ears, Tim could still hear Nightwing's words.

"Try to understand, Robin… You're looking at those times through rose-colored glasses. In hindsight it feels great, but while you were experiencing those times, you just felt the emotions of the moment. Anger, frustration, embarrassment... fear."

Tim increased the pressure on the choke hold to slow the blood flow to the head of the thug under him. "But it was fun. Probably one of the best times I've ever had."

"That's just how you remember it. And you remember it as a great time because you were being in the moment. Trust me… the best way for you to have fun with the team you're with now... is to be with them."

The thug in his arms was beginning to pass out both from the lack of oxygen and from the chemicals in the syringe. When he was supine on the floor, Robin checked his vitals to make sure that he was unconscious and proceeded to tie him up.

"So, did you find out which crate it is?"

"Give me a minute."

Tim turned on his penlight again and searched the ground for the dropped file. He bent down, picked it up, and sifted through it looking for the numbers.

"Could you hurry it up, Robin? These guys were probably supposed to check in by now."

"Here we are. It's under the alias, 'Aaron Eagle'. Crates 1435 through 39"

"Four of them?"

"Wait… here's another shipment. This one's under the name Felix Flamingo. 936 and 937.

"These are shipments for 18-wheelers. There's no way to check all of them in time."

"Elmer Emu? 0035-0037. What exactly is the Penguin smuggling?"

"Give me a second… I'm by the 1400s now."

Tim scanned through the listings. There were at least ten shipments coming in from the Middle East for delivery to Penguin's known aliases. A commotion outside the office pulled Tim's attention away from the file. He heard scuffling sounds, probably coming from the remaining bandits in the warehouse. Cautiously, he turned off his penlight and crept out the office again towards the window he'd come through initially.

The front gate to the dock opened slowly to admit a parade of semi cabs. Mixed in among them were three vans and a limo.

"Nightwing--?"

"Almost got the first one opened…"

Tim reached into his belt and pulled out an audio amplifier. He pointed it at the limo. From inside the vehicle, he heard the unmistakable squawk of the arms dealer himself ordering the cabs to spread out and be prepared.

"Nightwing--!"

"Holy... Looks like you're getting the Batplane, Batcopter and Batrocket for a once-over in orbit."

"Nightwing--"

"They're not even hiding the shipment. It's all just piled in here. There are metallic shelves dividing the weapon types, but that's the closest thing to any sense of organization I can see, here. If the other shipments are half as packed, there's enough firepower for a coup."

"Nightwing, Penguin's actually here."

"What?"

"I'm serious--he's actually here. Along with… twelve semi-cabs and three vans."

"Robin, get out of there. Something's not right,"

"Wait, I can hear him from my current position without being spotted."

"Robin, I have a really bad feeling about this shipment. I'm going to call for backup. Try to keep your distance until--"

Just then Tim heard the sound of a gunshot echo from the far rear of the docks.


	8. Chapter 7

Batman returned to his most vulnerable place.

It smelled of worn cardboard and decayed fabric. It was nearly devoid of light. He could just make out several eight-foot-high rows of shelves, which contained cardboard boxes filled with case files. Darkness was not just a tool for Batman to scare the crime element; it was also a comfort to him. It had a sense of… nothingness.

No one, not even Alfred, knew about this place. He'd come here after extremely painful tragedies. Events flashed through his mind like images in a flipbook: Jason's death, Stephanie's death, Jim's retirement, the sensory deprivation chamber... Barbara's crippling, Chase's death, Vikki forcing him to choose whether to stay or leave. So many times… and this room was never far from his thoughts.

Batman removed a three-inch rod from his belt. He shook it slightly, which caused it to emit a small glow. The files in the boxes used to be organized here… ordered by importance, ordered by name, ordered by date.

But the further time went on the further to the back of the room the box he was searching for moved. Ten years ago it was in the last row. Five years ago, it was moved to the bottom shelf. He finally spotted the one by two foot cardboard box tenth from the end.

There was really no reason for him to be in this room. He had every file memorized. Coming here, however, it did serve as a brutal reminder that the GCPD had given up. The officers of the Gotham city police force proved first their inability and then their unwillingness to do what was needed. He respected their courage and sacrifice, but there was no denying that for them this was still a job.

That was why he was better. Not because of the tools or the gadgets, but because of his character and the drive that had pushed him toward the peak of his potential. It could have led him anywhere: Olympic glory, feature film fame, leadership of the free world. Batman had chosen to fight. This wasn't a job to him, but a vocation; his life was dedicated to this one purpose.

The hour was late. The officer standing watch had been groggy when Batman slipped into the evidence room, so he was likely sure to have at least another hour. The one benefit to the file being buried so deeply in the stacks was that it left him a good deal of privacy.

Batman pulled out the first file. The paperclips holding the crime scene photos had a tint of rust on them. One quick glance at the positioning and he turned the page. There was no point in lingering on the details… especially if they would only bring rage and regret. The caliber of the gun: 38. He remembered the gun as having been a revolver. Clips were designed for quick release. It was what people used if they planned to shoot a lot of bullets. A revolver was for damage and show, mostly. They were also more expensive than the semis. Was the gunman trying to kill them, specifically?

The positioning of the bodies showed a struggle. She just stood there while the husband struggled. Or did his father struggle with the shooter after he'd already shot her? If the gunman shot her first, then how could she have screamed?

His memory of that night had changed over time. The positioning of the killer when the guns were fired... _Did I fall to the ground just after he'd shot her for screaming or as he ran away?_ _Were they fighting coming out of the theater? Why were they going through the alley?_ Even the number of bullets fired changed over time. Was it four? Five? The report stated four bullets were found… maybe four.

He flipped to another file in the box. This one was filled with the familiar testimony of the events. His despondent testimony was probably that of a typical traumatized child. The child in the alley didn't have the skill; the determination. The drive was only born that day. For a moment he pitied the child in the alley as if he were someone else. The brutal reminder that he was the child was almost inconceivable:

_"Can you identify the man that shot your father?"_

_"He had a green hat."_

_"Good, and what type of pants was he wearing?"_

_"They were blue."_

_"Good, good. Were they blue jeans? Or blue slacks?"_

_"Where are they, now?"_

_"We're taking your parents to the hospital, now and we need you to be strong. We need you to help us find..."_

_"They weren't moving. Will they be okay?"_

_ANSWER THE QUESTION!_ Batman felt himself screaming inside his head as he read his own words.

_Was he wearing jeans or slacks? How old did he look? Which way did he run?_

Batman paused. He reread the file, scanning over the verbiage. It was a text he had committed to memory. But he still wanted to find something, anything that would help.

Further down the page, he read the description he'd anew.

"_What else do you remember?"_

_"We saw _The Mask of Zorro."

"_Yes, and you left early. No one else was around?_"

_"We should have stayed."_

_"That's not important, now."_

_Yes it is. Why did we leave early?_ he thought to himself. Batman closed his eyes. Then he looked up, as he willed the tension to drain away from his neck muscles. He put his hand to his forehead as if he could physically pull the memory from his mind. He remembered a fight scene on the screen. Were they... arguing? The proof was in the details, but for the life of him, he couldn't recall them.

Batman looked back to the file, hoping to find something... anything.

_"I didn't see him coming. He was just standing in front of us, all of a sudden, pointing a gun."_

_"Can you describe him?"_

_"I don't know."_

_"Was he tall?"_

_"I guess."_

_"Tall like me?"_

_"Yeah. Taller. Almost as big as my Dad. They were the same size. We didn't know what to do."_

_"We. You and your mother?"_

_"Yes"_

_"Then what happened?"_

_"There was a gun shot. And there was another."_

_"Okay. You're doing great. Do you remember who was shot?"_

_"I don't know. I thought it was me."_

_"It's okay. Where were you looking?"_

_"I was watching my dad fall."_

_"Did you see the man?"_

_"Yes."_

_"What did he look like?"_

_"I don't know."_

Frustrated, Batman closed the file. _Nothing. Just like the other times._

He hadn't had the training then. He hadn't been in the moment. He hadn't concentrated on the details like he would have today. He hadn't looked towards the killer nor taken note of his posture. Which way had the man turned when he'd run out of the alley? Bruce was just a traumatized child, at the time. He wasn't good enough to help. Bruce Wayne wasn't good enough.

He replaced the file in the box and pulled out the autopsy report.

There were two bullets in each victim. Subject A: Thomas Wayne had suffered a bullet to the shoulder that had broken his clavicle and pierced the glen humeral artery. That could have been a fatal wound by itself, but then, there had been a second shot to the torso, which had pierced both the third rib and the lower quadrant of the right lung. He could have lived for up to ten minutes. There was also a blow to the head, most likely incurred by his fall to the ground. Both bullets had entered at a downward angle… The shooter must have been taller. Martha Wayne had been hit at a parallel angle in her diaphragm, which would have impaired her breathing. The second bullet had gone directly into her heart, also at a downward angle. She couldn't have screamed. The survivor was found kneeling over the two fatally wounded victims.

He closed the file and replaced it, as well. The next file pertained to the investigation. The first officer assigned to the case had been Lieutenant Felder. His picture in the archives of the police department showed him as a magnificent physical specimen, but his record revealed him to be better at internal politics than at actually solving cases. He'd spent his time on the case trying to see if there had been some kind of hit. He'd taken statements from friends of the victims, almost all of them high-ranking people in Gotham society. He'd used the high-profile murders as a networking tool, wasting time and resources.

The second person assigned after Felder's promotion had been a seasoned veteran waiting for retirement. He'd accumulated a little over 200 hours rechecking the same sources and revisiting the scene of the crime over the next five-odd years.

The testimonies only proved the ineffectiveness of the police force before Batman's involvement. Nothing had been added to this file in the last 16 years.

With a sigh, he opened the box again and threw the file in. Just as he was about to pull out another folder, he saw a hint of color. Moving the file to the side, he reached in to pull it out. It was velvet ribbon wrapped around a small glass jar with a three-inch-square card attached. Inside the jar was a piece of charred denim fabric.

Batman's eyes widened as he flipped the up card to read it. In block letters were three words...

THEY WERE JEANS


	9. Chapter 8

I'm very sorry for how long this is taking. I've actually rewritten the whole plot several times. I've just decided to remove a whole section to save on time.

I've been trying to get a "voice for these characters, but it's hard when the bat universe is in constant flux. As such, I'm going to try and not worry about this I cannot control.

I had the previous three chapters beta tested by Esther-Channah. She really helped me for those chapters; however, I didn't ask her to do this one because of the sheer length of the chapter.

I will try to work fast so I'll be done before the new millennium.

_--------------------------------------------_

_Damn it. There's no way no one heard that_, he thought to himself.

Nightwing stood over one of the many assailants he'd lay out throughout the mission. He had disarmed him, but not before he got one quick shot off.

"I messed up again." He thought to himself. "Bruce should be here."

He quickly picked up one of his Escrima stick that lay next to one of the fallen gunmen.

"Nightwing?"

Dick heard it through his ear piece. Robin's voice was hushed and fogged with static. Dick lifted his hand to his ear and pushed the transmit button. "I'm fine, Robin. Fall back to a safe distance. We need to reassess the--."

"Nightwing, can you hear me?"

He paused momentarily. "Robin?"

"Nightwing I heard a gunshot. What's your status?"

"Robin, can you hear me?"

Nightwing pulled out his earpiece. Almost immediately he could see the microphone on his com unit stripped. It'd take a few minutes to repair. That was time he didn't have. Dick placed it back into his ear.

He looked around for inspiration. There were at least a few dozen more men scattered throughout the harbor. All were going to be trigger happy and looking for them. Tim was scared that Nightwing was shot… Dick knew that. He saw that one of the gunmen he'd knocked out had a side arm and a radio. Nightwing quickly pulled the holster and the radio and leapt into the shadows.

Dick could hear Tim's voice was starting to become more intense trying to reach him. He pulled the gun and its holster. He wrapped the holster around his thigh and removed the gun. He then checked the radio. It was still on and receiving a signal. There was a dial on the top that went from 1 to 9 showing separate channels. The channel was on three… he flipped through them once over. There were no incoming signals so he set it back to three and slipped the radio into the holster. Nightwing checked the sidearm. He pulled out the clip and checked the number of bullets: 12 rounds. He put the clip back in the side arm.

Through his ear piece, Robin had stopped trying to reach him. Nightwing climbed to the top of a pile of crates. From his vantage point, he could make out five men coming cautiously towards the area he was in. There were another four heading towards the building he believed Robin to be in. Seven men were heading towards the truck beds to set them up for driving out. Nightwing aimed the gun to the air and fired.

The five men in the area jumped slightly and froze in their spots looking around. The seven heading into the building froze momentarily too and looked in the direction of the gunfire. Through his earpiece, Nightwing could hear Robin.

"Nightwing, I hear gunfire, are you okay?"

Nightwing pointed the gun up again and fired again.

Three of the five men in the area turned around and ran away while one of the other two turned around screaming, "You cowards" at the runners.

Robin paused through the wireless. "Dick?"

Immediately, Nightwing fired in the air again.

It was immediately followed by the two gunmen turning around and firing into the darkness around where Nightwing was. Nightwing then jumped his way through the shadows to position himself behind the two gunmen.

"Nightwing, is that you?" Nightwing fired again in the air. The two gunmen turned their attention towards the gunfire, only to each meet a high velocity Escrima stick directly aimed at their temples. Nightwing leaped down to the ground level to check on the gunmen and collect his sticks.

"Your microphone's busted and it's only receiving the transmissions."

Nightwing threw the sidearm on the ground and then leapt back into the shadows.

"That's not too bad. At least I can overview what I see… first things first. Stay away from any of Penguin's shipments. Penguin's hired Dr Polaris to position the beds for shipment. They're pretty prepared here… I'm looking at thirteen men surrounding the cabs. They may be stretching themselves too thin…they're feeding five guys at a time towards your position to keep you distracted. I'm--"

The line went silent which was followed by machinegun fire. Nightwing took to the sky and got as much height as he could. He analyzed the situation at hand. Polaris. The sheer number of hired thugs. The size of the shipment. None of this was expected. _Bruce would have known what to do_, he thought. _First of all, he probably wouldn't have wasted time making Tim know that he was ok. He also probably wouldn't have obsessed about how he was making all these mistakes and concentrate on stopping the shipments_. Robin's in the building fighting off 4 armed men. He figured that gave him about two and a half minutes. Nightwing used that time to climb to highest point he could to see Polaris positioning the crates on beds. As he landed on a crate, it began to shimmy. It lifted slightly in the air along with the one covering him for shelter. He leapt and rolled into an area between two shipments. He peered around the corner to see Polaris; his arms rose motioning the crates. Four crates in a line were being pulled and manipulated to fit onto platforms. He was effortlessly juggling 20 ton shipments. Nightwing knew that Dr. Emerson's persona gravitated towards evil when he emitted so much power. His persona, however, was hard to deal with in teams as he was easily manipulated and corrupted.

As he overviewed the layout of the operation, Robin came back on the wireless earpiece.

"Sorry about that. Where was I? Oh, right. Penguin's positioned by the bed loading areas and there's a grouping of guys over by the entrance. There are the two that are outside the fence and 6 more in canopy positions around the entrance. There are three beds already set up for transport. We're going to need to stop them at the entrance. I'm headed there now. I'll take out the men in the canopy. You concentrate on stopping those trucks."

Nightwing looked up. And saw a cargo crane. He thought of blocking the entrance with another crate, but hooking up the crate would take too long. To the right, he saw a heavy fork lift with a weight cart behind it. He ran towards it.

Nightwing could see there was a brief flash in the security area followed by smoke seeping out the windows. Gunfire was heard and was immediately silenced. Nightwing continued at his task on hand. He got in the fork lift and hotwired it. Once the engine turned over, he put it into the highest gear he could and floored it towards the entrance. In the corner of his eye, Nightwing could see Robin leap from one canopy to another. Through his earpiece, Robin informed him that one of the trucks already got out. At that moment, Nightwing could see the entrance and see the trucks moving at about twenty miles an hour. A hail of gunfire came on the forklift. Nightwing aimed the forklift and dove from the cart he rolled away from the light and looked back to see the forklift crash between the chassis and the cab connection of the second truck. The impact knocked the front section off the bed and it jackknifed getting caught in the gate entrance. The weights behind the forklift scattered leaded obstructions across the entrance. The gateway was lodged.

Instantly, Nightwing took off running. Guns were fired on him. He zigzagged making his direction unpredictable. From what he could hear there were three gunmen. However, only two of them were aimed towards the ground. He slid towards the wreckage below the 18 wheeler's axle and rose up from the other side. As much effort as he could muster he ran up the cab to the other side of the gate to confront two armed men outside. The two gunmen had pulled their guns from their hidden locations. They aimed towards their assailant. He dove towards the legs first towards the closest gunman hitting his shoulder knocking him to the ground. The other gunman was in a panic and was firing wildly at the two. Nightwing drew his fire away from the one he'd knocked to the floor. He dive rolled towards the wild gunman and extended the end to have enough momentum to fly forwards with a shoulder check. The guard fell back off balanced and Nightwing hit a roundhouse that knocked the gunman out. Behind him, the first gunman was getting back to his feet. Nightwing threw three windings aimed towards his shoulder and arm. They hit on target… one hit the hand holding the gun directly with an impact that it stuck from his hand which caused pain to shoot through his arm. Nightwing used the short moment of pause to throw his full weight into a lunge kick that would have definitely caused dental damage. The gunman fell to the floor thoroughly knocked out. Nightwing could hear the machine gunfire had ended behind him. A dark red shadow fell to his side. Nightwing looked beside him to see a relieved Robin. "It's good to see you heard my transmission. For a while there, I thought I was narrating what I was doing like an idiot."

"What transmission?"

"Um… nothing."

"Relax. I'm just kidding. Do you have an extra transmitter?"

"Not on me. We need to set up for Polaris. Penguin will move him to this area to clear the way for the trucks in no time."

While they were talking, Robin pulled the two knocked out gunmen off to the side and Nightwing reached into the cab of the wrecked truck to pull out the driver.

"Did you hear anything else?"

"Yeah. From my position I could hear why Penguin was here. Apparently, someone's been intercepting his shipments as they were being loaded in his contact locations. The Chilled Queen was the only one that he was able to get through the blockade. Not all of the shipments are arms; some of them are narcotics, irradiated supplies. There may even be kryptonite in one of the shipments. He's not planning on getting them all out of here… but he needs enough to keep his buyers happy."

"How long has he had this planned?"

"The ship's logs were updated three weeks ago. That should have been more than enough time for Batman to update the numbers. I called the JSA… They'll be here in time for the clean up, but we need to stop the trucks now."

"I'll deal with Polaris. You concentrate on disabling the trucks in case Polaris clears the way."

"What are you going to do?"

"You're asking me as if I ever know. Now hurry up, he'll be here any minute."

Robin quickly jumped up to the other side of the gate and swung towards other shipment of trucks.

For a moment, Nightwing thought to himself how fortunate to have Tim around. He was adapting to the situation, reading the scenario like a chess player. While with the Titans, Nightwing was the leader and everyone looked to him for leadership [reluctantly at first]. In this family, it's less leadership and more fluidity. Every piece of the plan fell into place in an operation, even when they fell apart while doing so.

He looked at his forearms covered with steel gauntlets. He removed a small wad of concentrate syntax and threw it into the rubble of the forklift. He pulled the detonator and a few wingdings from several of the compartments… then he unlatched and removed the gauntlets and any other heavy metallic casing. He untied the holster around his thigh and the communication device from his ear. He then removed the mask from his face and pulled a cloth mask from his belt and wrapped it around his eyes. Dick noticed there was a steel pull rod for hoisting on the forklift. He climbed the wreckage and pulled for it. As he felt the weight of the steel in his hand, the weights in the forklift began to shake. Without thinking he threw his wingdings in the air. They paused in mid air and flew back at him. He ducked and dodged the returning metal shards.

Nightwing could then hear Polaris's voice bellow from behind his mask. "Don't piss me off kid; I'm not above swatting at gnats."

Nightwing looked directly at him. He levitated twelve feet off the ground… outside of jumping distance. His arms were extended away from him and manipulating all the metal encompassing the doorway. As he increased his power output the surrounding metal was slowly gravitating towards him.

"Wow, you insulted me twice in one sentence. What is that, a double word score?"

"I'd call it 'your only warning to stay out of the way'."

"Well, so much for making a new friend." As he completed the sentence, he pressed the button on the detonator causing the forklift to explode. Half the forklift lodged itself into the gate itself while the other half slammed into the bed of the truck. Nightwing dove to the ground and rolled away from the blast. The shock blew Polaris back towards the ground, but never hitting it. He caught himself five feet in the air. He righted himself and planted both his feet and turned towards a dusted Nightwing.

"Alright. You win. I'm going for conspiracy for drug-smuggling and murder tonight."

The scattered weights around the door levitated off the ground and flew towards Nightwing. With miraculous agility, Nightwing dodged the propelling metal weights. Polaris reached a hand behind him and pointed at a parked car. He threw his arm forward with little effort hurled the car towards Nightwing. Nightwing calculated its trajectory immediately and rolled away just avoiding its thunderous weight. The metal rod remained in his hand. Nightwing extended the roll to a lunging swing with the rod. Polaris grabbed the metal rod immediately with his magnetism to which Nightwing let go and followed through with a lunging downward thrust with his fist. The Kevlar took a large brunt of the hit, but the metal exterior of Polaris's helmet could still be felt. Fortunately, Nightwing knew that Polaris felt it more in his head rattling against the side of the helmet. Nightwing hit him again with a flipping kick knocking Polaris to the ground.

"You bastard!" he screamed.

"Your insults are getting more generic Emerson. I'd be surprised if you got one point for that."

Polaris then reached out with both hands away from him and grabbed two crates. He clapped his hands together and the two crates crashed together exactly where he thought Nightwing was. Polaris then got to his feet. As the dust settled, Polaris could hear Nightwing call out. "You know, you were supposed to clear this area, not pile these crates in the way of the trucks, right?"

"I'll clean the mess once I start seeing your blood coat the ground."

"Great plan. Well, good luck killing me, then."

Polaris grabbed one of the two crates and threw it off to the side. Polaris Then grabbed the other one, but just as he was about to move it to the side, Nightwing jumped down from above it with the pull bar in hand. Nightwing swung again towards the head with the steel bar. Polaris levitated himself away from the fight. Nightwing was only able to clip Polaris's leg denting the metal joint. Polaris waved his arm stripping the bar from his arms. Nightwing continued the advancement to keep Dr. Emerson off balanced. Without thinking, Polaris allowed himself to get in a close quarter direct confrontation. He threw his right arm forward. Nightwing easily avoided the punch and deflected it so Polaris's back was facing him Nightwing shoved him towards the ground again. In sheer frustration, Polaris removed his awkward helmet and turned around to get a better view of his surroundings. Nightwing had grabbed another metal pole and was swinging it towards him again.

"You keep trying the same thing over and over, Nightwing. When are you going to learn it's not working?"

Again, Polaris flicked his fingers away and the metal bar flew away. Nightwing then lunged with his knee towards his exposed head.

"That one wasn't even an insult… Nightwing's actually my name."

Polaris tried to again get away from the combat. Nightwing grabbed the high collar of Polaris's cape pulling him closer to his head. There was a large crack sound coming from Polaris's jaw as the knee connected. Polaris staggered to his hands and knees.

Nightwing then said behind him, "Let me ask you: when you see me coming at you with a metal bar, do you think the danger coming at you is the metal bar or the guy holding it?"

As Nightwing finished the sentenced he lowered an elbow across Polaris's temple. Dr. Emerson's head twisted with a force he hadn't expected and fell unconscious.

Nightwing grabbed the body of Dr. Emerson and hauled it towards the gate entrance. Once he got there, he collected his audio transmitter and a small concoction to keep Dr. Emerson unconscious for a little longer. The minute he put the transmitter into his ear, Nightwing could hear Robin talking through.

"Nightwing, where are you? The Penguin is really freaking out right now. He's screaming into some kind of radio he has with him."

Reaching behind him, Nightwing saw the holster with a working radio in it. Nightwing pulled out the radio and changed the channels on the radio.

On channel 8, the radio came alive. "Emerson. Report." It was the Penguin's squawky voice.

Nightwing responded. "Neal Emerson's not available right now. Did you want to leave a message?"

"Who is this?"

"Jeez, Oswald. You'd think that after all these years you'd at least remember my voice."

The line went silent.

"Oswald? Are you there?"

"You intrusive reckless uncivilized charlatan. I'll cause you such imaginative pain for your interference you self deluded faux-Batman interloper."

"Wow… You're much better at that then Polaris was. Although I'm sure if he was conscious longer, he might have come up with something colorful enough to compete."

In his ear, he could hear Tim respond, "Dick, I don't know if you can hear me, but the Penguin's going pretty crazy right now."

A smile showed across Nightwing's face.

"Here's the thing Ozzy. The entrance is completely blocked. The facility is fenced off… and I'm pretty sure the police will be here within ten minutes. Now we can spend this time playing cat and mouse where we try to catch you causing grievous bodily harm or you can put your guns down and surrender. Which is it going to be?"

Nightwing used this time to move towards Penguin and the others. He could almost hear the squawks of the Penguin in the distance. To his far right, he could see two men with guns running towards a side exit. Robin fell from the sky immediately grabbing one in a head lock while kicking the other one into a nearby shadow as if they were eaten by the darkness.

"I guess your men have decided on the third option. Every man for themselves. After all, it's easier for one to escape than seven together."

Then from approximately 20 yards away, Nightwing could hear a screaming squawk, "Come back here you apostate."

Nightwing shifted himself through the shadows to see Penguin standing in front of three men. They stood poised with machine guns pointed in virtually all directions. Nightwing smiled and thought to himself, _One well placed knockout gas bomb, and the whole exercise is over._

The Penguin was still screaming into the radio he held in his hand. It was more complex than the one the thug he'd knocked out had. He wasn't talking on channel eight. Nightwing pulled out the radio and lowered the volume to an almost inaudible level before switching channels. On channel four he heard the Penguin's voice.

"Harrison, have you got a shot?"

"I'm sorry Mr. Penguin, sir. I've been trying to shoot that Nightwing, guy, but my gun's completely jammed. I can't get it to work."

"Carson, how about you?"

"I saw one of them jump into a shadow towards one of the office entrances."

To Nightwing heart-wrenching realization, there was another sniper.

"The second he comes out, he's mine."

An ice chill went up Nightwing's spine. His transmitter was broken, he could only hear Robin. He could scream to Robin, but the three gunmen would zero in on him and fire drawing Robin out of the shadow. As fast as he could, Nightwing threw five knockout pellets as hard as he could towards the Penguin and his three henchmen. One of them got several shots off, but Nightwing threw his Escrima sticks with such strength and accuracy, he partially feared he might have damaged the spine of one of the gunmen. Nightwing threw fists and legs in the circle surrounding the Penguin until he was the only on left standing in that circle. When he was done fighting, he looked around. Immediately, he knew the knockout gas had not completely dissipated from the area, but he had to clear this area as quickly as possible to verbally warn Robin. Then with all the strength in his lungs, he screamed as loud as he could, "Robin, stay in the shadow."

Unfortunately, Nightwing wasn't sure how far his voice carried.

Nightwing took two steps forward and felt his knee buckle. He caught his balance by placing his hand on his knee and keeping himself up and screamed again. "There's another sniper, stay where you are."

He inhaled trying to run back into the shadows. He couldn't smell the gas, but knew that he'd only have thirty seconds before he'd have to concentrate on staying awake. In the radio, he could hear the sniper on the other end. "I think he's coming out now."

Nightwing used all that was left of his voice in one final scream, "No, Robin! Stay down! Sniper!"

As if he were living a nightmare in slow motion he saw Robin leap from the shadows from twenty feet off the ground. Using a propelling grappling Robin launched himself in the air towards Nightwing's position. As he flew in the air, Nightwing was waiting for the inevitable.

As he was coming toward the ground Nightwing could see a slight jolt across Robin's shoulder. A portion of the cape shrugged and Robin rotated in flight unnaturally. Robin went limp as he fell the final ten feet towards the ground

He continued to roll towards the ground chest first. His shoulder hit the ground first followed by the rest of his limp body.

Nightwing's scream was lost in his throat.

"I got him, but I can't see where he landed."

He hobbled his way towards Robin.

"Harrison, can you see him?"

"Yeah, I can see him. But my gun's broken. He's thirty feet away from the operating crane."

"Got him. Bye-Bye Birdie."

Nightwing kept thinking to himself, _I failed, I wasn't fast enough... I wasn't strong enough. I'm so sorry Tim._

"AAAAHHHHHHHH"

As Nightwing collapsed to his knees, he saw a red blur fly over Robin making him disappear.

"Carson, what was that?"

"There's green fire everywhere."

Nightwing let his upper body be supported by his hands. He breathed heavily. His muscles burned with strain and his vision was lessening to shapes and colors. Nightwing was desperately trying to stay conscious. To crawl to Tim... Wherever he was. Then a pair of blue boots softly touched the ground next to him.

"Hey, hero. The cavalry's here."

Nightwing tilted his head upwards to look at the costume standing next to him. All he could make out was yellow hair a gold staff and a blue outfit. He couldn't think of who it might be. All he could think of was Tim. _Where was he?_

"Oh, please don't collapse on me before getting your name. That's going to be totally embarrassing for me."

Nightwing felt his shoulders fall to the ground. Right before loosing consciousness, the last thing he heard was, "Um, guys? Could I get a little help here… And a camera?"


End file.
